Page 91 of The Cupid Chronicles

I narrow my gaze. “Except the fact that we aren’t dating.”

“Oh, no,” he says. “They know that too. My guess is they wanted to see how we’d react.”

I frown. “They’re like the Fates or the Muses or something. Magic building, crafty old women . . . is this actually Hogwarts?” I joke.

“It’d be easier if it was. More people to take care of things instead of just me.”

“Justus,” I correct him.

He inhales. “And hopefully soon, just you.”

I get it, I think.You don’t have to keep reminding me that’s all this friendship is.

“Oh, and they’re still watching us.”

I pretend to laugh and look back, and yep, Rhonda is craned over from behind Roberta, still watching us walk back into the building. “Remarkable.”

“They’re bored and observant and invaluable when the newspaper is cryptic,” he says. “Which is often.”

“And they’re kind of fun.”

He pulls the door open and looks at me, something close to a frown on his face. “You think?”

I walk inside. “Yeah, I do. I want to have coffee with them.”

We reach the lobby and stop. I wonder if this is where we go our separate ways because the magic lesson is over or . . .?

“Do you want to figure out a way to help Joy, or do you need to get back to rotting on your couch?” His question cuts off my mental ramble.

“What about Slow Sunday?” I ask.

“Sacrifices must be made for the magic, Iris.”

I watch him for a second, then say, “For someone who doesn’t like doing this, you’re awfully good at it.”

He shrugs. “I’ve found that the quicker I figure out what it wants me to do and do it, the quicker I can go back to my life.”

“And it couldn’t be that underneath your cranky exterior, you actuallylikehelping people?” I ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says with no trace of irony.

If I didn’t know him better, I’d believe him. “Uh-huh.” I shoot him a look and push past him toward the stairwell. “Fine. I’ll go change. Meet me in half an hour?”

“Just come to my apartment when you’re ready,” he says, “I’m going to run to the market to get a few things.”

I eye him for a long moment. “You’re going to feed me, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to save you from the Pop-Tarts, yes.”

“Can you save me with pancakes?” I ask.

He groans. “You’re getting to be really high maintenance.”

“You kind of knew that.” I stare.

He stares back.

After a beat, he says, “Fine.”

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