Page 39 of The Cupid Chronicles

“When it comes to my grandmother’s recipes? I feel like I have to be,” I say. Again, odd that I’m even talking, but especially about my feelings.

Iris shrugs. “This seems perfect to me. If not perfect, then perfect-adjacent.”

“I . . .” I stammer for a moment, then realize I’m being rude. “Thank you. It was a pleasure to cook for you.” I clear my throat. “Uh, both of you.”

Iris turns to Winnie and says, “I should go too, but . . .” She indicates the food she just heaped onto her plate.

There’s an odd moment between the women, and Winnie then, all of a sudden, says, “I’ll pack everything up and bring you a doggie bag. It’s no trouble at all!”

Winnie scoots her chair back and heads into the kitchen to start rummaging through cupboards. I freeze where I stand, because Iris is now looking at me with a knowing look.

If her face were a body, it would have its hands on its hips.

I’m hoping to avoid another confrontation with Iris, like in the hallway, but it’s obvious she’s not going to make that easy.

She stands and, still looking at me, walks her plate over to the counter and sets it down.

“Oh, just leave it, dear,” Winnie says. “You cooked. I’ll take care of the mess.”

Iris looks around the nearly spotless kitchen, then at me. “What mess?”

Winnie laughs. “Well, I suppose you’re right. Chef Matteo left everything neat as a pin.”

Iris watches me, and I can practically see the list of questions growing behind her eyes.

“You’ll both come back again, won’t you?” Winnie asks.

“I’d love to come back,” Iris says. “Maybe you can show me a few of your favorite paintings?” She motions around the space. “Looks like you’re a collector.”

Winnie smiles. “I would love that.” She looks at me. “And Chef? Will you be back?”

“I will,” I say, “I have many recipes that need testing.”

I like Winnie, which surprises me since I don’t like many people. But more than that, I don’t think my assignment here is finished. Sometimes, what the newspaper wants me to do is one-and-done—anonymously make sure two people enter each other’s orbit, for instance. Other times, there’s more. It seems like this is one of those times. I have a feeling there has to be more than a cat and a couple of meals to this one, I just don’t know what.

I’ve gotten used to waiting to figure it out.

There’s no rushing magic.

“Do either of you like to dance?” Winnie asks as I rinse my plate and file it into her dishwasher.

Behind me, Iris laughs, and I can’t help but notice it’s the kind of laugh that dances around in the air even after she’s gone quiet. The kind that seems to catch her off-guard.

“Is that a no?” Winnie looks at Iris, eyebrows raised.

“What a left-field question,” she says, still giggling. “Winnie, Iloveto dance. Just not in front of people.” The kitten pads over and winds a figure-eight around Iris’s ankles. Shestiffens a little, almost like she’s not exactly comfortable with cats.

Still, she brought it here.

For Winnie.

“You?” Winnie looks at me.

I frown. I don’t remember the question.

“Do you dance?” She says this pointedly, as if she is speaking to a small child.

“Uh, no.” The question conjures the image of the first moonlit night in that tiny apartment with Aria, the day we got back from our honeymoon. The moon was so full, Aria asked to keep the lights off while she turned on a slow, jazzy love song and asked me to dance right there in our living room.

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