Page 78 of The Cupid Chronicles

It needs something. Something homey.

And then, it hits me.

I don’t even hesitate to think that it might not be the best idea ever. Or that he might hate it.

I just thinkthis is brilliantas I rush out of his apartment, leaving the door open and the newspaper out on the counter.

I hurry down the hall into my space and find what I’m looking for, then rush back to his apartment just as he reappears in the living room from a bedroom that probably smells like a Christmas tree farm.

There’s a faint scent of pine or spruce or something delicious whenever he’s around, and I have to imagine this smell only intensifies in his bedroom.

Bedroom.

I shake the thoughts from openingthatdoor.

“You left,” he says as I rush past him. “And . . . you brought the 1970’s back with you.”

I ignore him, spreading the multi-colored crocheted afghan I made this past summer on the back of his couch. “Don’t be ugly. I’m giving you a gift.” I turn and find a grimaceon his face. “Consider it payment for all the food.” I draw in a breath. “It’ll make your space cozier.”

He cocks his head and points. “Cozy is not what that is.”

“It’s homemade. Homemade blankets are always cozy.” Obviously, this isn’t true. When I was a kid, my grandma made me a blanket out of the itchiest and cheapest yarn in the store. But that doesn’t support my argument, so I keep it to myself.

“It doesn’t go with anything in here,” he says.

I shoot him a look. “Anything will go with what’s in here because there’s nothing in here.”

He shoots me an annoyed look, but I ignore it.

“Oh! I made a throw pillow to go with it! Do you want me to go get it?”

“No.” And then, after a pause, he says, “Wait, did you say you made that?”

“That’s whathomemadeusually means.” I quirk a brow, and I see the second he remembers using that exact line on me in Winnie’s apartment. “I only use the softest yarn.” I reach out and pet the brightly colored granny squares. “It’ll be perfect for, you know, relaxing on the couch when you get home from work or if you have a date or something.”

What am I saying?

He rolls his eyes and walks into the kitchen, making a clear point of ignoring me. I glance back at the living room, aware that the afghan really does look ridiculous with his modern aesthetic. “So many hard lines in here,” I say out loud, continuing the conversation I’m having with myself in my head. “You just need to find something to soften them a little.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s leaning over the newspaper, reading.

“Oh! Yes! Let’s do it!” I rush into the kitchen and standbeside him, leaning over the counter, the same way he is, only I’m pretending I know what I’m looking for.

As if one successful bout with the magic has made me an expert.

“You’re way too excited about this,” he mutters, eyes scanning the pages. Then, with a quick glance in my direction he adds, “This is why we’re here, remember?”

“Right,” I say. “All business. All the time.”

I pause.

“And French toastsomeof the time.”

He gives me a healthy dose of side-eye.

I’m trying to be cautious. I’m doing my best not to be . . .me. But, per usual, I barreled in here acting like he and I are exactly what we aren’t.

Friends.

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