Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Iris
He shut the door on me. Again.
Rude .
I pause, trying to decide if I pushed things too far, or if I’m being annoying, or if I’m going to do what normal Iris would do and dive in, headfirst, come what may.
I decide the latter and go to grab the handle, when the door opens.
It’s Matteo.
And he’s frowning. “I’m, uh . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shut the door on you like that.”
I’m shocked. He looks like he’s chewing glass, but was that an apology?
He holds the door open. “Do you want to come in?”
I knew it. I knew there was a nice person tucked away underneath that hardened exterior. It makes me wonder what—or who—hurt him so badly.
“You’re back!” Val doesn’t hide the surprise on her face when I follow Matteo into the kitchen.
She’s short, with dark hair pulled back in a bun, and she isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. She’s wearing black pants and a white chef’s coat, which seems to be the uniform.
Despite my best efforts and his “nothing personal” declarations, I am curious about Matteo. Why did the building choose him as its Cupid? And why is it now choosing me?
We couldn’t be more different. I don’t know anything about his personal life, but I’m hoping it’s not as bad as mine.
What’s his story? And how do I find it out when he’s definitely not going to tell me?
I stop my train of thought. That’s not the point here. I don’t need to know anything about Matteo—other than the fact that he knows how the magic works. I will think about that and not the fact that my torso turns into a cage of butterflies when he looks at me.
Those kinds of butterflies aren’t real.
Val shoots Matteo a look, which he seems to ignore as he pushes past her and hangs up his winter coat. “She’s probably hungry again.”
He pulls his chef’s coat down from one of the hooks and turns to face us, and only then do I realize I’m staring at the way his plain white T-shirt pulls across his chest, highlighting well-defined muscles and tattooed biceps that could easily carry a person from a burning building.
I would volunteer to test that theory.
I glance over at Val, who chuckles, and I quickly look away, embarrassed.
“Are you joining us for family dinner?” Val asks, hopeful.
“Uh . . .” I toss Matteo a helpless look, but he’s inspecting a box of produce with that same careful consideration he seems to give to everything.
“Chef?” Val calls out.
“Yes, set an extra place,” he says without looking at her.
Val wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Welcome to the family. ”
My insides squeeze at the word.
Family .
I haven’t had one of those since I was thirteen.
I can still remember waking to find nobody had gotten me up for school. My mom was still in bed, and my dad was just . . . gone. He’d left a note on the refrigerator that just said, Sorry, Iris. Call you soon .
I had friends whose parents had gotten divorced, but it was never something I thought would happen to my parents. We were close—a tight little circle, just the three of us.
And my dad was leaving? Didn’t we matter enough to make him stay?
Didn’t I matter enough?
Yeah, total cliché. People always say it “wasn’t my fault,” that there “wasn’t anything I could’ve done,” but boy, it sure feels like I somehow did something wrong.
People leave.
It turned out that my dad had met someone else. They were married a year later, and her kids became his. My mom remarried a year after that and had another baby with her new husband, Richard. She did her best to make me feel like a part of their family, but I was fifteen. Mostly grown.
And that’s when I realized I’d always be an in-betweener. The biological child caught between two families. A disconnected connector.
After years of therapy, I finally realized that’s why I’ve spent so many years trying to fit in. I’m trying to fill a void, and I try hard.
I give everything I can, as soon as I can, in the hopes that “this relationship will be the one that sticks,” only to have that become the thing that ruins it. People don’t like to be smothered, even when that smothering is well-intentioned.
Family?
I’m not sure I know what that feels like .
So, when Val says it so flippantly— welcome to the family —like it’s not a big deal, something inside me twists.
I still want that. I still want to belong. And against my better judgment, the tiniest seed of hope is planted.
“So . . .” I look for a way to start a conversation. “What’s family dinner?”
“Oh! Right! Sometimes I forget that normal people don’t know our traditions.” She leans up against the counter. “Before the chaos of dinner service begins, we come together as a staff—as a family—and eat a meal together.”
“No way! I’ve never heard of that. Do other restaurants do it too?”
“If they don’t, they should ,” Val says with a smile. “We share recipes, try new things, and rotate who cooks every day of the week. Gives us a chance to impress Chef.”
I look around at everyone tying on aprons, wiping down prep surfaces, taking positions.
“Pick a seat,” Val says. “We’ll be ready soon! You’re in for a treat because tonight is Matteo’s turn to cook.” She leans in. “It’s always the best when Matteo cooks.”
I smile, and before she turns to go, I ask, “How long has the restaurant been here?”
Val pulls a kitchen towel out from under the waistband of her apron and uses it to dry hands that I didn’t know were wet. “About four years. It was a rocky start, but Matteo was never going to let it fail. It matters too much to him.”
“He’s really good, isn’t he?” I ask.
“You have no idea,” she says. “And I know he’s got that whole gruff, rude thing going on, but he’s one of the kindest, most thoughtful people you’ll ever meet.” She leans in. “Plus, he’s never brought a woman here for family dinner. It’s nice to see him back out there!”
“Oh!” I hold up my hands. “It’s not like that, no, we’re not?— ”
She dismisses my protest. “I know. But his food has a way of changing people’s minds,” she says with a glint in her eye, tucking the towel back under her apron. “Just know that he’s worth the work it’s going to take to knock down the huge brick wall he’s built around himself. He’s been through a lot.” She pauses, nodding to herself, as if thinking about it, then smiles. “But he’s one of the good ones.”
I glance across the room just as Matteo looks up from where he’s working. He straightens, clearly aware that our conversation is not about food. I want to ask Val all the questions—what’s he been through? Why the brick wall? How do I knock that down?
But I don’t ask any of those things. Instead, I flash her a smile and say, “He’s just helping me with a project, that’s all.”
She studies me, then smiles. “Okay. We’ll go with that for now.”
She’s quick.
My eyes flick over to Matteo as Val walks away. He studies me for a few seconds, and I realize that I want him to be the one to answer all my questions. Ideally, while he cooks.
I watch for a few minutes as the hustle and bustle reveals itself as perfect, routine choreography. To an outsider, it might look like chaos, but it’s obvious that everyone has a job in this kitchen. They move in harmony, each filling in any gaps that might be left in the fray.
They have a shorthand way of communicating, too, foreign to me, but it probably comes from years of working together, of knowing each other.
And in the midst of it all, one thing is certain—Matteo is in charge.
It looks like they’re prepping the food for dinner service at the restaurant while he cooks for the staff. It’s a wonder to watch.
They carry on conversations, taste bubbling sauces, pinch this spice into that bowl, pausing to respond to Matteo as he gives instructions or to get his approval on various things along the way.
Nicola and a big guy work behind one counter, while Val mixes up a salad dressing from scratch. A guy someone calls Dante chops vegetables, and a few other people move in and out of the space.
“How was Gio’s basketball game last night, Renata?” Val asks a woman working on the opposite side of the kitchen.
“Oh, he fouled out in the third quarter,” the tall, dark-haired woman says, shaking her head. “I keep telling him he needs to get his temper under control, but he’s too much like his father.”
They continue chatting while Dante, Nicola, and the bigger guy next to her talk about a trip to Paris Nicola and someone named Danny are taking in the spring.
“Is it a holiday or a work trip?” the guy asks. “Because you’re going to need an extra week just to try all the restaurants on the list I sent you.”
“Bear’s right,” Val calls out, joining their conversation. “You really need to eat your way through Paris to get the full experience.”
Bear , I think. Fitting name. He looks like a linebacker.
Bear moves over to a sink to rinse out a bowl, and Matteo comes into view. He’s isolated himself from the others, making quick, decisive moves around a workstation that is as neat and tidy as Winnie’s kitchen after he finished cooking for her.
The noise of the kitchen fades away as I watch. I’m a little awestruck by the way Matteo moves. With everyone else on task, it’s like he’s completely blocked out everything happening around him, all the conversations, the noise—he seems oblivious to all of it. Every movement is deliberate and precise, and there’s only one word I can think of to describe it.
Magic.
It’s odd, though. I keep picturing his grandparents. When I think of them, entertaining and cooking and inviting people to eat with them, it’s a lot louder than this.
This is quiet. Clinical. Precise.
I focus on Matteo and can’t help but think it’s all coming from him.
He needs fun , I randomly think. I’m fun.
I force my gaze to zoom out on the full picture of the kitchen. I can’t fixate on him. And I certainly can’t entertain the idea that this man’s apple cart needs to be upset by someone like me.
I’m a lot.
I also can’t just sit here, and I start to get antsy.
I need something to do. I stand and walk over to Val. She’s way less scary than Matteo. “Can I help with anything?”
A voice from Matteo’s corner. “No.”
I frown. So I guess he wasn’t oblivious. Still, he hasn’t stopped working. He hasn’t even glanced in my direction. I face him. “I can at least set the table or something.”
“Dante will set the table,” Matteo says, almost sounding like he’s dealing with a petulant child, still not looking up.
I don’t look at Dante, choosing instead to focus on Matteo and feeling a little slighted, even though this is his kitchen and he can obviously do what he wants. “Can I at least help Dante?”
“No,” he says. “My kitchen. My rules.”
I don’t have to look around to know that the staff has heard this phrase before. And at the moment, they’re probably all thankful they’re not the one he’s talking to.
There’s just one difference. I don’t work for Matteo .
Quietly, Dante moves over to a shelf and grabs a stack of plates, walking it out of the kitchen without another word.
I get an idea.
“Hey. Chef.”
He looks at me, and I look back, and without breaking eye contact, I walk over to the shelf, grab napkins and bowls, hold them up and smile, and then walk out of the kitchen, all without a word.
“Wait! You can’t?—”
“Too late,” I call over my shoulder as I walk out.
In the dining room, I find Dante setting a large table in a room marked “Private.” I assume this is a room people can rent for small gatherings, and apparently it’s also where the staff eats before they open for dinner.
I walk in and set the bowls and napkins down on the table. “So, you’re Dante.”
He grins a wide smile, “That’s me. Dang, you totally ignored Chef’s order.” His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head.
I smile right back. “Yep.”
He shakes his head. “You’re playing with fire, you know that, right?
I shrug. “I’ve seen worse. Is he always like that?”
Dante nods. “He’s the boss.”
“So, yes?” I pick up the napkins. “He’s just got such a chip on his shoulder,”
“You’d be the same way if—” Dante stops talking.
“If?”
He shakes his head. “Ah. Nothing.”
I stand there for a few long seconds, again wishing I could figure out why Matteo is the way he is, but Dante won’t even look at me now. He takes the napkins from me and starts placing them around the table .
“Can I help?” I ask.
He freezes. “Chef said no.”
“I don’t work for Chef.”
“You’re right. But you’re here as a guest.” The deep voice comes from behind me.
I turn and find Matteo standing in the doorway.
“Guests don’t help with prep,” he says.
I frown. “Can you make an exception? I feel totally helpless. I’m just sitting back there, and you already fed me one meal, and I need to repay you.”
“Two meals,” he corrects me.
I give him an exactly sort of look, and say, “It’s just napkins. Let me help.”
“You’re not an orphan. You don’t have to earn your keep.”
I shoot him a look.
“Just stay out here,” he says. “Out of the way.” He glances at Dante. “Can you get her a drink? She needs something to do with her hands. She fidgets when there’s silence.”
At that, I stuff my hands in my pockets, not sure how to process the warm feeling that spreads through me at this acknowledgement. It’s stupid, really, but the teenager in me thinks, He noticed.
Dante shuffles around him, out of the room, and I find myself alone, staring at Matteo and horribly at a loss for words.
“Sorry, I’m not trying to get in the way—” I say, clearly missing something.
He looks at me. “I get it. You have questions about the building? About the newspapers? Great. I’ll tell you what I know. But the rest?” His jaw twitches, and I’m not sure I want to know what else he has to say.
But then, his eyes find mine, and I very much want to know .
“No questions about me,” he says. “No questions about my life, or my past, or the restaurant or . . .” He pushes a hand through his hair as Dante returns with a drink.
He hands it to me. “It’s a Coke—is that okay?”
I take the glass and nod. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He goes back to setting the table, and I go back to feeling uneasy under Matteo’s watchful glare. His whole attitude has shifted since we walked in from outside, and I’m not sure what changed.
He takes a step toward me. “I can’t have you in my space,” he says, his voice low so only I can hear. “I need to focus.”
I nod, feeling off-kilter and a little weak-kneed at his nearness. “Okay.”
Then, even more quietly, he says, “We’re not friends, Iris. We’re just getting through this weird situation and moving on.”
The words linger, like a bad aftertaste. We’re not friends .
I feel like such an idiot that I’d even for one second let myself think anything else.
But then I think about what Val said in the kitchen. That he’s one of the good ones. That it’s worth it to knock down his brick wall.
That I’m part of the family .
“We could be, you know,” I say, knowing my vulnerability is showing. “Friends.”
This is the exact opposite of what I should do.
His eyes flicker for a beat.
I add, “I don’t have that many. It might be nice.” Careful, Iris, you’re going to sound desperate.
I shove the thought aside, and for a flicker of a moment, we connect. Like it wouldn’t be so bad to open up, to get to know each other outside of the magic. Like maybe we aren’t so different after all .
But then, as quickly as it came, the moment is gone, like a mist of golden shimmer.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry. We can’t.”
I press my lips together and look away, waiting until, finally, he turns to leave.
I stand still, feeling the sting of his rejection, knowing this is my own fault. That, like always, I’m getting invested. I’m getting attached.
And that can’t happen.
People leave.
Only, this time, at least Matteo didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. It was me who got my wires crossed.
I glance up and find Dante actively trying not to look at me.
I set the Coke down on the table. “You know, on second thought, I’m going to go.”
He looks conflicted, and I smile, hoping to put him at ease.
“I’ve got a lot to do, and I’ve only just now remembered.” I nod. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Of course,” he says, disappointed. “See you next time.”
My fake smile holds, and I duck out of the private room, moving quickly toward the front door, thinking that whatever spell I’ve been under where Matteo Morgan is concerned has been officially broken.
Two hours later, I’m curled up on my couch with my crochet basket, about to see who gets voted off of Project Runway and trying really hard to be thankful for the much-needed wake-up call .
I’ve finally got my emotions in check— This is not a big deal. It’s not like you want to be friends with someone like Matteo anyway. Better you realize that now rather than later, after you write a whole story about how you’re going to be the one to pull him out of his shell— when there’s a knock at my door.
My heart skips.
I walk over, glance through the peephole, and see a teenager standing in the hallway. “Yes?” I say through the door.
“Delivery from Aria.” He holds up a brown paper bag, and I see the logo of Matteo’s restaurant printed on the outside.
I open the door, and he thrusts the bag in my direction.
“I didn’t order that.”
He shrugs. “Came through with your name on it.”
I frown, taking it awkwardly, as if it’s going to announce how it got here.
“Night, ma’am,” the kid says, taking a few steps down the hall.
Ma’am? Ouch. How old does he think I am?
“Wait. Let me get you a tip.” I wait to make sure he stops.
He turns. “Chef said I’m not allowed to take your money.”
I stare at him.
“He already tipped me.” A shrug. “Have a good night.”
I watch him go, staring after him down the hallway, double checking to make sure there’s no hidden camera, no newspaper, no other surprises waiting for me.
I take the bag inside and set it on the counter, torn between wanting to toss it in the trash— Does he think he can make up for his rudeness by placating me with food?— and wanting to devour every scrap in this bag.
I open it, and the smells of garlic, tomato, and basil fill my apartment—and my soul.
Inside, there’s an entire loaf of bread, cut in half, and two large to-go containers .
I pull it all out and see there’s a small piece of paper taped to the top of one of them. On it, in bold, black Sharpie, are five words.
Stay away from frozen pizza.
Sigh.
Why does the jerk have to be secretly nice?