Page 85 of The Cupid Chronicles

His mouth twitches, and I feel the heat rush to my cheeks.

“I mean—I didn’t—” I press my lips together, but I can’t think of any way to erase the visual I’ve just created.

He just stands there, smirking.

I turn around, leaving the door open, and walk back into my kitchen, mentally flogging myself for being so awkward. I can’t help it—this is the first time he’s sought me out. It feels buzz-worthy.

And I’m definitely buzzing.

I walk into the kitchen and pull out a mug, aware that he’s closed the door and followed me inside. I turn and find him looking around.

“Are you getting hives just being in here?” I ask with a quick glance around my apartment, which looks like a “before” photo onThe Home Edit.

“It’s . . .” His eyes scan the space. “Very you.”

I frown. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

He shrugs. “It looks exactly like I pictured.”

“Considering how neat your apartment is, I’m taking that personally.”

“It’s not an insult, I promise,” he chuckles. “Is the artwork yours?”

I look around at the brightly colored canvases I’ve hung on the walls. “Yeah. I don’t paint much anymore, but I hung them to remind myself that I can.” I wonder if my smile is wistful or sad.

His expression doesn’t answer the question. “You’re good.”

“Well, thanks,” I say, feeling a little self-conscious.Probably because I unloaded my pathetic art show misery on him. Seeing it through his eyes has me rethinking every piece of mismatched furniture and every crocheted granny square.

“What you’re seeing is the result of every bad break-up of my adult life.”

Matteo’s eyebrows shoot up in an unspoken question.

I set down my mug, walk into my living room, and point to a throw pillow. “Peter. College boyfriend. Told him my whole life story on our first date. Thought for sure we’d end up together. When he started his job at a fancy law firm in Boston, he met Ruby and fell in love. Peter said Ruby’senergywas a better fit for him.” I pause for effect. “I learned to crochet because I needed a distraction.”

I walk over to the coffee table and point. “Brian. Post-college. Met him at a coffee shop. Brian’s mother came to his house to pick up his laundry every Saturday morning, then brought it back all neatly pressed and folded—whichmighthavebeen a red flag, you know, because he was twenty-five, but I somehow convinced myself I could help him make that leap into adulthood. In the end, he said it was too much pressure, and I stressed him out.”

I lean down and pat the table. “Found this on the side of the road the day he broke up with me and decided to teach myself to refinish furniture because I needed the distraction.”

I point at a cactus. “After Brian, there was Bryan with ay.” I look at Matteo, who winces. “Yes, really. He was an adult with a real, adult job. But because I wanted him to fall for meso badly, I did just about everything I could to make his life easier. I got his groceries. I tidied his apartment. I even picked up his dry cleaning.”

Matteo purses his lips, like he wants to say something but doesn’t.

“And oh, yes, he let me do all those things. Pretty soon, he expected them. And I became less of a partner and more of apersonal assistant.” I pull a face. “The worst part? I’d probably still be with him if he hadn’t decided I was smothering him.” I scoff, then pick up the cactus. “I learned all I could about caring for succulents because I needed a distraction.”

“So you keep all these? Don’t they make you think?—”

“Of what a relationship destroyer I am?” I finish his thought for him. “Yes.”

“That’s not what I was going to say, but okay.”

I shrug.

“I was going to say ‘don’t they make you think of how wrong they were for you?’ Why would you even keep them around?”

I shrug. Names and memories are attached to nearly everything in my apartment.

Ceramic vase? Hunter. Three dates and he’d had enough.

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