Page 1 of Falling for My Matchmaker

Chapter 1: Welcome to Matchbox

The office smelled like desperation and lemon-scented hand sanitizer.

Which, coincidentally, was exactly how I smelled after my latest dating app disaster: Desperate. Sanitized. And done.

I shifted in the too-plush lobby chair, trying not to wrinkle my blazer. Across from me, a woman in a satin blouse clutched a clipboard like it was a flotation device on theTitanic.

We locked eyes.

She gave me a tight, panicked smile.

I gave her my bestyes, we're both pathetic, let's move onnod.

Look, I didn’t want to be here. I was thirty-two, single, and after fifteen months of re-downloading and re-deleting dating apps like it was my part-time job, I’d finally broken. Or rather, my best friend Lauren broke me—with a birthday gift I couldn’t return. A “curated matchmaking experience” from a boutique agency calledMatchbox.

Happy birthday, Diana. You're officially too jaded to DIY your love life.

Fine. I could admit that modern dating had all the charm of a root canal performed by a magician.

But still—a matchmaking agency? Sitting here felt like giving up.

Like admitting love wasn't something you found by accident anymore.

It was something you scheduled between conference calls and gym sessions.

Romance as logistics.

God, I missed being twenty-two and stupid.

"Ms.Martin?"

A warm voice pulled me out of my spiral. I looked up.

And immediately regretted it.

Because standing there washim.

Twenty-something, probably. Movie-star smile. Shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off forearms that could bench-press my entire emotional baggage collection.

I blinked.

Then blinked again because no way was this real.

"You’re...my matchmaker," I said flatly.

He smiled, all sunshine and earnestness. "That’s right. I’m Nate. Nice to meet you. Please follow me."

God help me. I'd been assigned a boy-band matchmaker.

Was this a prank? Did they assign me a trainee because I checked the "high-risk case" box?

Or—a worse thought—maybe he wasn’t even straight.

Honestly, with those cheekbones and that level of personal grooming, it felt statistically likely.

Maybe he was here to be my emotional support gay bestie. That would track.

Still half-expecting a hidden camera to pop out, I stood.

---