Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Iris
I’m stopped in front of my door, looking down.
There’s a rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.
I’m just home from the restaurant, just home from the most delicious meal of my life, just home from feeling like I was becoming part of something amazing. Something that almost felt like family.
They welcomed me in. They wanted me there. It was so opposite of how I’ve felt for so much of my life. That girl who clambered to fit in, to belong—she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was just me and loads of open arms.
And I ruined it. Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl . Seriously?!
Clearly there’s a story there. A story I don’t know. My joke about him having his heart broken did not go over well.
How could I go there again?
I wanted to talk to him—to apologize—but he was busy, and when I left, he barely looked up from what he was doing. Which is why, on the way home, I decided I need to keep my distance. Until I have a legit reason to bother him again, I will stay away .
Focus on work.
On the art show. On helping Joy get acclimated to her new job.
But there’s a newspaper on my welcome mat.
I take it inside and set it on the counter. Maybe it’s time for me to do one on my own. I practically handled Joy all by myself. I turn it over and find his name on the label, just like all the others.
I turn it back over, hiding his name. “I can’t bother him! I overstepped. And I don’t trust myself around him!”
The newspaper vibrates in place, enough to roll over and reveal the label again.
Matteo Morgan.
I laugh out an “Oh, oh, okay. Fine. Great. ” and turn to walk into my bedroom when I hear the distinct sound of shimmering chimes.
I stop and slowly turn back.
There, on my counter, are now thirty newspapers, spelling out M-A-T-T-E-O.
“Very subtle,” I groan.
The newspapers then roll together into one pile, and with a sploof of golden misty shimmer, disappear, leaving one lone newspaper in its place.
“Fine. Fine . But I’m going to try to figure it out on my own first , if you don’t mind.”
The newspaper pops open and lays flat.
“So helpful,” I say sarcastically.
Hours later, my resolve has crumbled. I can’t find what it wants me to see. No articles in a different tense, no rhymes or riddles, nothing out of the ordinary.
And I can’t be sure, but I seriously think that when I reread parts of the paper, they’re different the second time through, like words have switched around.
I have no idea what it wants me to do .
I fold it up and sigh, knowing I have no choice but to ask for help. Also knowing that I’m not going to sleep until I figure it out.
I take a breath, open my front door, and walk down to Matteo’s apartment. I knock, but there’s no answer.
I spend the next two hours stalking the hallway for any sign of human life. At one point, I hear a door and rush out of my apartment into the hallway. I come face-to-face with my new neighbor, Cash, who is wearing scrubs and holding two bags of garbage, presumably on his way to the dumpster.
“Sorry.” I wince.
He gives me a friendly smile and keeps walking.
I go back to the paper. Still nothing.
And this time, I know it’s switching things around, because on the first eight times reading this one part, the story was about a dry cleaner, and the next time, it’s about a shoe store.
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” I say out loud, not even pausing to note how weird it is that I’m talking to a newspaper.
It doesn’t talk back.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Magic sucks.
A few hours later, I hear something in the hallway, and I leap to my peephole.
I see the fish-lensed side of Matteo’s face as he passes my door, and I whip it open and jump out with a “Hey! Hi!”
He jumps away from me, arms up, with a “WHAT THE—!” and after realizing it’s me, he puts his hands on his knees and breathes a few deep breaths. “You scared me to death.”
I’m not sorry. I’ve been waiting for his sorry butt for, like, four hours.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come home. ”
It’s then I notice the haggard look on his face. He looks exhausted.
“Tough night?” I ask.
“Long night. Followed by a near heart attack.” He stops. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like if you don’t blurt something out it’s going to jump out of your chest.”
I hold up the newspaper.
“Another one? So soon?” He starts walking again, and I follow him, aware that he’s probably way too tired to talk about this right now.
That should stop me, but it doesn’t. I feel energized. Excited.
I follow him, and he unlocks his apartment and walks inside, leaving the door open.
I take that as an invitation.
As I open the newspaper, I say, “Look, I wasn’t going to bother you, but I need your help with—” I stop. There, right on the front page, is a lone article. The rest of the newspaper is completely blank, except for four large-font centered lines of text.
Sophie Stewart, Apartment 1C, needs dirt.
Lots of it.
For the rooftop garden.
Four bags should do it.
And that’s it. No rhyme, no riddle, it’s about as plain and straightforward as you can get. And absolutely does not need input from the man who is currently standing in front of me.
I look up to find Matteo looking at me. “You need help? Is it a riddle? It likes to test your brain. Here, let me—” He takes the newspaper from me before I can stop him .
His eyes scan the words for three seconds, and then he looks at me. “This was too hard for you?” He frowns. “Four bags of dirt. Seems pretty easy.”
“That’s not what it said before! It kept changing the words around and?—”
“Maybe you’re not the right person to hand this off to,” he jokes.
“It’s not my fault! It’s the magic’s fault. It’s playing tricks, it’s?—”
He reaches over and puts his hand on my forehead. I freeze at his touch.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking to make sure you don’t have a fever.”
I swat his hand away, grateful for the tease. I grab the paper back from him, crumple it up into a wadded ball, and chuck it into his kitchen.
Mid air, the wadded up ball pops in a puff of gold mist back into a normal newspaper shape, and lands right on Matteo’s immaculate counter.
I hold out a hand at it.
“See? SEE?! It’s mocking me!”
Matteo laughs and says, “Maybe you’re the one who’s exhausted. You need a good night’s sleep.”
I slink over and slump onto his couch. “I’ve about had it with this magic. Sometimes it’s all warm and fuzzy and ‘oh my gosh, Joy has a job—yay!’ and other times, it’s . . .” I clench both fists and shake them in the air.
Matteo sits down across from me in the chair. “Now you’re starting to get it.”
I frown. “You’re so ready to be done with this, aren’t you?”
“It’s not all bad.” He shrugs. “Besides, I’m used to it.”
“And apparently really good at it. At least according to your entire staff.”
He pushes a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled and sexy. “Don’t pay attention to them. They make stuff up all the time.”
I grin and pull my feet up under me. “You were matching people even before the magic forced you to match people.” I blow out a breath. “I’m onto you, Morgan.”
In the lull, I think about my careless comment at dinner. I want to apologize even though I’m unclear what the story is, but if I bring it up again, I’m scared he’ll kick me out.
And I really don’t want him to kick me out.
I pick up the remote control from the shallow container on his coffee table and flip on his TV. “The best way to unwind after a long day at work . . .” I click around on the screen, open up Netflix, and scroll until I find The Great British Baking Show .
“You want me to take a break from running my restaurant by watching a show about cooking?” He looks at me.
“Baking,” I say. “It’s totally different.”
He makes a face that seems to concede, then moves from the chair to the couch and turns his attention to the screen.
“Trust me,” I say. “It’s the most relaxing way to spend a night.”
About twenty minutes in, he’s clearly hooked. It’s the lady with the Scottish accent. Has to be. Every time she speaks, I can practically feel the stress melting away. After all, this show is magic, too.
Twenty minutes after that, I glance over and see that Matteo’s jaw has gone slightly slack, and he’s breathing in and out in a quiet rhythm.
He’s fallen asleep.
My heart squeezes at the sight. There’s something quietly intimate about falling asleep with somebody. And I love that he feels comfortable enough with me to do that.
Though, he may just be that tired .
Still, I take the opportunity to look at him in a way I can’t when he’s awake.
His olive skin is a perfect contrast to his deep-set brown eyes and a jaw so chiseled his perfectly trimmed beard does nothing to soften it. My gaze travels down to his chest, then lingers on strong, sturdy hands, resting on his stomach.
He really is a beautiful human.
But also, he’s kind. Surprisingly so.
He keeps that side of himself hidden for a reason I haven’t uncovered but really, really want to.
Maybe my comment was thoughtless, but that doesn’t make it wrong. Maybe Matteo really hasn’t met the right person to make him believe in true love.
Maybe . . .
Don’t do this, Iris. You know better.
But maybe this time will be different.
It feels different. Doesn’t that count?
I should go.
The longer I stay here, the more I do what I always do—imagine that this relationship is something more than what it is. And that’s a great way to make everything awkward.
I turn off the television, then pick up the crocheted granny square blanket and spread it across his lap. I lean over to adjust it, and as I do, Matteo shifts and reaches for my arm, catching it in his grasp.
“Wait.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I go still, thinking maybe it was a reflex or something. But then, I notice his eyes are open, and he’s watching me.
Seeing me.
My heart pounds so loud in my chest, I’m sure he can hear it. His grip around my wrist loosens, but he doesn’t let go. Just searches my eyes, and I force myself not to look away. A whole conversation happens in that moment and neither of us speaks a single word.
I sink into the space next to him as he shifts and wraps a hand around mine. My mind tries to catch up to my heart, racing in a direction it does not have my permission to go.
Is he going to kiss me?
I press my lips together, begging my overactive imagination to calm the heck down already , but there’s no sense in trying to be logical right now. I’m already halfway down the aisle in a white dress holding a bouquet of tulips.
Matteo’s eyes drift over to our hands, and he folds his fingers into mine, then brings his gaze back. “Iris . . .” he whispers my name, and studies me with a quiet intensity.
I try—fail—to tell myself he’s just exhausted and overworked. Lonely.
I inhale his familiar scent, and my skin feels charged. Like there’s an electrical current passing from his body into mine and back.
No amount of reason will convince me that something isn’t happening between us right now. And there’s not one shred of logic that stands a chance over the sound of my pounding heart.
Slowly, I start to move, wanting him to hear the words I’m too scared to say out loud— Please kiss me .
I hold eye contact, another inch closer, my mind spinning. Is this really about to happen? My gaze drops to his lips and?—
His gaze falls away.
I freeze. Humiliation rushes to my face, and I quickly stand, “Oh, gosh. I . . . shoot.”
I misunderstood. I projected. I—need to go. I try to put my hands on my hips, and they don’t feel comfortable there, so I cross them, and that doesn’t feel right either. I shift, awkward. Deflated.
Where do I put my hands? !
“I should—” I start and then stop.
I feel so stupid.
“I’m going to go. We can talk about the paper tomorrow. I’m sure you’re exhausted.” I take a couple of steps toward the door.
He stands. “Iris?—”
I shake my head. “Sorry. I know you’re tired. I shouldn’t have bothered you tonight.”
“No, it’s fine. You didn’t bother me.”
At that, I dare to meet his gaze.
“I just—” He blows out a breath, turning away and pushing a hand through his hair. “I can’t?—”
“It’s fine, really,” I say, not wanting him to feel like he has to let me down easy, especially when nothing really happened. I start toward the door.
“Hey. Wait.”
I stop, and I can feel myself start to fidget.
“Stop by the restaurant tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll, you know, figure out how to get Sophie her, uh, dirt and?—”
“Perfect.” I cut him off, turning to walk toward the door. I stop before I pull it open. “But you’re not feeding me again,” I say, desperately trying to find an ounce of levity here.
He shrugs. “We’ll see.”
I stand there, awkwardly, for a beat too long, knowing I’m going to have to work really hard not to replay that moment on the couch on a loop in my head.
Even now, my face is on fire just thinking about it. I’m such an idiot. I don’t know what I was thinking. I am obviously not what he wants.
I slip out the door, close it behind me, and before I get back to my apartment, I burst into tears.