Page 14 of Falling for My Matchmaker

He turned the screen toward me.

BEN F.

No photo. Just a clean, ad-looking profile: thirty-three, undergrad degree from Brown, creative director at a boutique branding agency in Tribeca. The kind of job that meant he probably drank pour-over coffee, wore tailored joggers to client meetings, and had very strong opinions about serif fonts.

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re setting me up with a faceless man?”

“No photo?” he confirmed, preempting the protest. “Correct. We’re running a pilot. A two-phase system—psychological compatibility first, visual profiles second. The idea is to disrupt some of the usual filters that keep people in the same dating loop.”

Nate paused. “I met with him in person, too,” he added reassuringly. “Smart guy, funny, great conversationalist. And—just so you know—very attractive.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Attractive how? Likeyou’ddate him attractive?”

Nate glanced up, unbothered. “Attractive like ‘a client who gets a lot of matches’ attractive.”

Right. Of course. Nothing to overanalyze here. Just regular, completely gender-neutral matchmaking commentary.

“So, you’re telling me this guy is cute, artsy, emotionally available, and...likes women?”

Nate didn’t flinch. “He’s been through the full Matchbox intake. And he scored highly compatible with your profile.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And his name is...Ben F.?”

He nodded. “You’ll meet for dinner. Matchbox covers it. Neutral setting, no pressure. You don’t owe him anything but a conversation.”

I looked back at Nate. “And if I say no?”

“You won’t,” he said simply.

I scoffed. “Oh really?”

“Because you’re curious. Because you’re stuck. And because deep down, you know I’m right.”

I glared at him, but it was halfhearted. He had that maddening twinkle again—the kind that made it hard to tell if he was flirting or just really good at his job.

“Dinner’s at seven. Reservation’s under Diana,” he said, already sending a follow-up email to my phone. “Wear whatever makes you feel like you have your life together. Or fake it. Either works.”

I picked up my bag like I was heading into battle. “This is going to end with me crying into ravioli, isn’t it?”

“Possibly,” Nate said. “But at least it’ll be artisanal ravioli.”

***

The restaurant was too nice.

Not suspiciously nice, but...suspicious-adjacent. White tablecloths. Candles that flickered just a bit too romantically. A waiter who offered me sparkling or still before I even sat down.

Matchbox really went for it.

Maybe, I thought, smoothing my dress, this wouldn’t be terrible.

Maybe “Ben F.” was just an unfortunate name shared by thousands of emotionally available strangers in their thirties and not, say, the human landmine who dumped me three years ago.

Then I saw him.

And the floor dropped out from under my shoes.

Ben.

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