Page 79 of The Cupid Chronicles

I think about what Winnie said—that the world needs my big, open heart—but maybe she doesn’t know how easy a big, open heart is to break.

I start scanning the articles, noticing immediately that this edition is different from the one about Winnie. All the articles are about different people, with whole sections of blank space. I don’t get it.

After a few minutes of searching, Matteo stands upright and refills his coffee, then leans against the counter.

I feel him watching me, so I finally meet his eyes. “You already found it?”

“Yep.”

“It’s like a word search.” I groan and go back to scanning the newspaper. “I was never good at those.” I move over to the other side of the counter and plop myself back down on the stool while Matteo sets his mug on the island and checks on the bread. He pulls a pan from a nearby cupboard then proceeds to put so much butter in it that my arteries clog just watching.

He must sense me judging because he stops moving and looks at me.

I laugh and look away. “That is so much butter.”

“Trust me.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t want to be friends with me because my waistline can’t handle eating so much of your food.”

He quirks a brow. “Your waistline is just fine.”

Heat rushes to my face.

“Wait. I didn’t . . .” His face flushes.

I try to play it off by saying, “Oh, I know, no big deal . . .” But my inner teenager is back.He noticed my waistline?

I inadvertently stand up a little straighter and try to nonchalantly fluff my hair. What else has he noticed? The words on the page in front of me go out of focus as I struggle to concentrate. And this feeling—this gooey, ridiculous, buzzy feeling—is exactly what I’ve been hoping to avoid.

Never mind that seeing him shirtless this morning just about gave me a cardiac episode.

He moves the butter around the black pan, watching it closely. “Does that mean you don’t want breakfast?”

“Heck, no,” I say. “I cracked the eggs. I have to see how it turns out.”

“Just checking.” He picks up one of the slices of bread, and it sizzles when he sets it in the hot griddle. While I can’t be sure, I think he’s trying not to smile.

I want to ask him why he seems to resist enjoying himself. It’s obvious in the way he eats, the way he cooks, that there is passion there. He has to enjoy it on some level.

“None of these articles are about the same person,” I say after a few minutes of scanning the words on the pages. “The newspaper with Winnie was all about Winnie.”

“Yeah, they’re not usually that obvious.” He’s got hisback to me now. “I think that one was more like the shallow end of the pool. This one’s a bit more toward the deep end.”

I go back to the newspaper. “How am I supposed to figure this out?”

Now, he turns and leans against the counter, twirling a spatula. “Giving up so soon?”

“No.” I turn the page, and Matteo gives me a pointed look. He found whatever he was looking for on the first page. This is probably the only clue he’s going to give me.

“How am I supposed to concentrate when it smells like that in here?” I ask, stomach growling.

“Refer back to my earlier comment about patience.” He taps the newspaper. “No breakfast until you figure this out. And you’re going to want to eat it before it gets cold.”

I huff out a sigh. “Fine.”

He gets quiet while I go back to searching, and I do my best to ignore the slight sizzling of the bread and just how badly my mouth is watering at the smell. And then, I see it.

A short blip of text, the only thing not written in past tense.

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