Page 87 of The Cupid Chronicles

“It’s just coffee, fancy pants,” I say, pulling a mug out of the cupboard and pretending like the coffee he made yesterday wasn’t the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.

“I don’t think it’s a flaw.” He’s moved from the couch to the other side of the kitchen island, and I’m thankful there’s a little space between us. “I just don’t share like that.”

“Really?” I say, mock-surprised. “This is breaking news.”

He rolls his eyes.

I laugh. “Well, be glad. It usually makes people run the other way.” I take a mug down from the cupboard and pour him a cup of coffee. I know he takes it black, but I also know it’s going to taste like sewer water compared to what he’s used to. “I’m working on it.”

“This is one of those things you’re trying to change,” he says, remembering.

I nod.

“Don’t.”

The word hangs there, in the space between us, and I want to reach up and grab it.

“It’s . . . nice,” he says. “You know what you want, and you’re going for it. That’s not something to be embarrassed about.”

I’ve never looked at it that way.

“But my baggage?” I say, as if I need to pull it out of the closet and wave it in front of his face. “Nobody needs to see that on day one. Or day thirty. It’s too much.”

He shrugs. “For the right person, you won’t be too much.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Nobody’s ever said that to me before. Not like that.

It’s the second day in a row Matteo has been kind to me, and I wonder if kindness means more coming from an unexpected place. I’m starting to see why the magic picked him.

He takes a drink of the coffee, and his face contorts. “This is terrible.”

I laugh. “Was waiting for that.”

“This is yourrealfatal flaw.” He pushes the mug back toward me. “From now on, you’re not allowed to make coffee.”

“Oh, really?” I frown. “Are you going to be my caffeine dealer every morning?”

“If it means saving you”—he points at me—“from that”—he points at the mug—“then, yes.”

I laugh. “Fine. I get up early. And be prepared for a jump scare when you open my door, because pre-coffee I’m prehistoric.” I smile from behind my cup. I like that he’s here.

More than I should.

I know what he wants. I know it’s not what I want. And just because he listens and is way more decent than I thought does not change the fact that I really don’t know him at all.

Yet.

“What are you doing today?” he asks.

“Trying to figure out your whole life’s story, probably,” I say.

“Can you put a pin in that?”

“Make me a better offer.” I walk over to my pantry closet and pull out a box of Pop-Tarts.

“Don’t eat those in front of me,” he says.

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