Page 54 of The Cupid Chronicles

“More like a girl-next-door.”

“Ooh, so convenient!”

“Just a trip down the hallway?—”

“Bottle of wine?—”

“Short walk of shame?—”

“Are you two finished?” I ask desperately.

They both smile, extra-wide.

They’re ridiculous.

“Do youlikeher?” Nicola asks.

I only stare.

They gasp.

“Chef! You do?!” Nicola exclaims.

I take an extra-long breath, gauging my dwindling level of patience before I speak. “I don’t know her. I just want her to leave so I can get back to work.” I scrub a hand down my face. “But she’s going to eat Pop-Tarts for dinner if we don’t feed her?—”

They both let out a comical groan in unison.

“Exactly. So. Can you two stop acting like annoying teenagers and bring something back when you get a chance?”

Val’s eyes narrow. “You want her to go . . . so you’re feeding her dinner?”

“Pack it up in a to-go box,” I say. “Maybe she’ll get the hint.”

“Uh-huh,” Val says. “Okay. I’ll bring back a chicken parm.”

“Great.” I start to walk away.

“And I’ll bring back a dessert,” Nicola calls after me.

I turn back. “I didn’t ask for that!”

“Too late!” She disappears around the corner.

“I don’t think youbothneed to deliver it,” I shout after them, but there’s no answer.

There’s no point in arguing. Nicola and Val have an agenda, and it doesn’t matter what I say. After all, Iris is the first person outside of vendors and employees to show up in the kitchen looking for me.

I walk back into my office and find Iris, still waiting, but looking worried. Maybe even scared.

I sit down, remembering how jarring it was when the magic first showed up for me. It feels overwhelming and confusing, and there is no way to just “go with it.” And it took me months before I asked anyone about it. With the exception of my grandpa, nobody remembered anything I said. It was like . . . the same magic that delivered the newspapers, magic I assume the building generates, also decided who got to know about it—and who didn’t.

Once my grandpa acknowledged it, I started to accept the fact that while the magic doesn’t make sense, it is a part of living in our building.

Maybe that’s what I’m supposed to do for Iris.

And maybe—hopefully, finally—that means the magic will move from me to her, like it did from my grandpa to me.

“Will you be straight with me?” she asks. “Like, will you just answer my questions?”

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