Page 80 of The Cupid Chronicles

“Aha! I found it!” I say, triumphantly. “Serve it up, Chef.”

“Read it out loud,” Matteo says, and while he would probably never admit it, he almost sounds . . . excited?

He plates the food as I read aloud:

Joy is a joy, and she needs something new.

Her life became flat when her three became two.

Her confidence is wafer-thin papermâché

So, if someone could chordially invite her today

(For her balance in life is no work and all play)

A blessing is long overdue.

Look for something noteworthy.

I frown. “That’s weird. It reads like a riddle. Plus ‘cordially’ is misspelled.”

“First thing you need to know about the newspaper,” he explains, “is that every issue is a little different than the last one.”

He points at it.

The rest of the articles, all the words, slowly disappear, leaving only this rhyming blurb.

“So, step one: figure out who the newspaper is talking about—my guess is, someone named Joy.” He picks up the two plates and walks them over to the table. “Do you want something else to drink?”

I spin around on the stool and watch him. “Why do you pretend like you’re a jerk?”

He ignores me. “Orange juice? Water?”

“Ooh. Orange juice, please.” I stand and walk over to the table. “I’m serious. I don’t get it. If you were really the awful person you want people to believe you are, you would’ve kicked me out when you first opened the door.” I laugh. “And you definitely would not have made me breakfast.”

“I was just saving myself time.” He pulls orange juice out of the refrigerator. “I don’t know you well—but I do know you wouldn’t have left me alone.”

I pretend to think about this, then shrug. “Fair.”

“And this isn’t an act.” He hands me a glass. “I’m very careful about who I let into my life.”

I want to ask him why. Instead, I say, “Oh, I’m not.”

His eyebrows shoot up as he sits, almost like he’s surprised I’m admitting this.

“I should be, but I’m not,” I say as I start cutting my French toast.

He frowns. “Why should you be? I mean, you said before you like people,” he says.

I stop cutting. “Because . . . reasons.”

“Oh, yeah, well, that clears it up,” he muses.

Because New Iris is trying to be better about volunteering too much personal information. New Iris doesn’t want to get close to someone—again—only to have them leave. And so far, New Iris has done a decent job. A solid C+.

The problem is, Iwantto tell him everything I’m thinking.

“If I tell you, it’ll be agiantovershare.” I feel like the forewarning makes it okay. Also, I’m a slow learner. A part of me knows this isn’t the way to get someone to open up. A part of me knows this is how I run people off.

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