Page 86 of The Cupid Chronicles

Macrame wall hanging? Timothy. Little bit longer but felt like we were still “moving too fast.”

Button art? Jason. Turned out he was gay. Oh, well.

The hobbies, like the men, didn’t stick around either.

And that’s a brilliant question. Why have I kept all this stuff? Why am I putting it on display, like some Broken Hearts Museum?

I don’t look at Matteo. “I think some people who have divorced parents think they’re never going to fall in love or get married. They’ve seen what a mess it can be—and my parents’ divorce was messy.” I inhale a slow breath. “But for other people—” I go quiet then, because it hits me all at once that I’m realizing this as I’m saying it out loud.

And I’m saying it to Matteo, which is probably a mistake. Is hereallythe person I should be confiding in?

“For other people?” He presses for me to finish the thought.

I shake my head. “Ah, nothing, it’s dumb.”

I expect him to take the out. To tell me why he’s here andrefocus this conversation on something productive—the magic. So when he sits down on the edge of my vintage couch closest to me, it catches me off-guard. “For other people . . .?”

I scrunch my face. “You don’t really want to hear this.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t?”

“Do you?”

“Just because I don’t like to talk about myself doesn’t mean I don’t want to listen.”

I study his face for a long moment, searching for some sign that he’s placating me. I don’t find one.

It’s different, talking to someone with a genuine interest in what I have to say.

Huh. Another real-time revelation.

“For other people . . .” I clasp and unclasp my hands. “It makes the whole concept of a family that much more appealing. It’s a glittery, shiny thing I’ve never really had.” I pull my legs up under me. “I think I chase after it because I’ve romanticized it, but so far, that pursuit has only brought me?—”

“Ugly furniture?”

I bark out a laugh and swat his arm. “It’s not ugly.”

He makes a face that says,You sure about that?

“You said it was very ‘me,’ so you’re basically calling me ugly.” I mock-glare at him.

He shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”

My mind instantly locks on a meaning he probably didn’t intend, and when it does, I have to look away. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want the whole wife, kids, family dog life?”

There’s a flicker of sadness in his eyes, and I see the second he shuts down. “No questions, remember?”

I groan. “Comeon! I’ve practically told you my whole life’s story! How is that fair?”

“Are you always this . . . open . . . with people you’ve just met?” he asks.

“Yes. You finally get it. It’s one of my fatal flaws.” I stand and walk back into the kitchen. “Do you want coffee?”

He glances at my drip carafe and winces. “We need to get you a French press.”

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