Page 52 of The Cupid Chronicles

She stops right in front of me. “Hey.”

I make a face. “Hi.”

She purses her lips. “We need to talk, and I can’t wait for you to decide when.”

Bold. I respect that.

“Okay.”

She looks up at the others in the room and leans over to make sure they can’t hear her.

“It’s aboutyou know what,” she whispers at me, then leans back, a pointed expression on her face.

Right. Okay. So . . . it’s time to talk.

“Fine,” I say. “But?—”

Before I can tell her that the kitchen full of staff isn’t the best spot to discuss this, she cuts me off.

“Today at school I met an old man who was—get this—teaching the third graders how to square dance,” she says, and not quietly. “And you know my co-workers? The ones I told about—” She looks around for a second, the only indication she’s aware that we aren’t alone. “Everything? They don’t remember the conversation.” She throws up her hands. “Completely oblivious.”

She takes a step toward me and points. “But you remember. Don’t you?”

I straighten, looking around the kitchen at my staff. “I’ll be back in five.” I motion for Iris to follow me into the small office next to the back door of the restaurant. I walk around the desk then turn to face her, finding her standing in the doorway, eyes roaming over my workspace.

While I do have a business manager, I spend a fair amount of time in here, planning menus, booking events, paying bills, working on inventory. It’s the business of owning a restaurant, and while it’s not my favorite part, it’s critical to Aria’s success.

The longer Iris stands there, looking, the more exposed I feel.

Finally, she meets my eyes. “You’re meticulous. This is the cleanest office I’ve ever been in.”

I give the office a cursory glance as she steps inside.

“Close the door,” I say.

She lifts her chin, as if to make sure I know she doesn’t like to be bossed around.

“Please,” I add.

She closes it, then turns and squares off with me.

“I like things in their place. It helps me keep things—” I stop. I don’t want to get into this. I’ve been over my need for order with my therapist.Control the things I can control.I watch her. “What questions do you have?”

But she doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s too engrossed in the wall where Val framed and hung my diploma, business license, and the cover of a regional magazine that featured me as an up-and-coming chef to watch. A shelf of plaques and trophies—awards I’ve won.

“Chef of the Year?” Iris asks, studying one of the frames. “Most promising up-and-coming . . .” Her voice trails off.

I inhale. She’s discovering information about me, and I don’t exactly like it.

She turns back. “You’re kind of a big deal.”

“Not really.”

“According to this magazine, you are.” She points to the framed image, reading the headline next to that horrible posed photo. “And your restaurant is one of the top ten to visit in the entire northeast region? That’s huge.”

I don’t look at her. I don’t like this. I just want to get back to my kitchen.

“I get it. I tasted your pasta, remember?”

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