Page 105 of The Cupid Chronicles

He makes a face that seems to concede, then moves from the chair to the couch and turns his attention to the screen.

“Trust me,” I say. “It’s the most relaxing way to spend a night.”

About twenty minutes in, he’s clearly hooked. It’s the lady with the Scottish accent. Has to be. Every time she speaks, I can practically feel the stress melting away. After all, this show is magic, too.

Twenty minutes after that, I glance over and see that Matteo’s jaw has gone slightly slack, and he’s breathing in and out in a quiet rhythm.

He’s fallen asleep.

My heart squeezes at the sight. There’s something quietly intimate about falling asleep with somebody. And I love that he feels comfortable enough with me to do that.

Though, he may just bethattired.

Still, I take the opportunity to look at him in a way I can’t when he’s awake.

His olive skin is a perfect contrast to his deep-set brown eyes and a jaw so chiseled his perfectly trimmed beard does nothing to soften it. My gaze travels down to his chest, then lingers on strong, sturdy hands, resting on his stomach.

He really is a beautiful human.

But also, he’s kind. Surprisingly so.

He keeps that side of himself hidden for a reason I haven’t uncovered but really, really want to.

Maybe my comment was thoughtless, but that doesn’t make it wrong. Maybe Matteo really hasn’t met the right person to make him believe in true love.

Maybe . . .

Don’t do this, Iris. You know better.

But maybe this time will be different.

Itfeelsdifferent. Doesn’t that count?

I should go.

The longer I stay here, the more I do what I always do—imagine that this relationship is something more than what it is. And that’s a great way to make everything awkward.

I turn off the television, then pick up the crocheted granny square blanket and spread it across his lap. I lean over to adjust it, and as I do, Matteo shifts and reaches for my arm, catching it in his grasp.

“Wait.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I go still, thinking maybe it was a reflex or something. But then, I notice his eyes are open, and he’s watching me.

Seeing me.

My heart pounds so loud in my chest, I’m sure he can hear it. His grip around my wrist loosens, but he doesn’t let go. Just searches my eyes, and I force myself not to look away. Awhole conversation happens in that moment and neither of us speaks a single word.

I sink into the space next to him as he shifts and wraps a hand around mine. My mind tries to catch up to my heart, racing in a direction it does not have my permission to go.

Is he going to kiss me?

I press my lips together, begging my overactive imagination tocalm the heck down already, but there’s no sense in trying to be logical right now. I’m already halfway down the aisle in a white dress holding a bouquet of tulips.

Matteo’s eyes drift over to our hands, and he folds his fingers into mine, then brings his gaze back. “Iris . . .” he whispers my name, and studies me with a quiet intensity.

I try—fail—to tell myself he’s just exhausted and overworked. Lonely.

I inhale his familiar scent, and my skin feels charged. Like there’s an electrical current passing from his body into mine and back.

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