Page 17 of Falling for My Matchmaker

“Asilvernapkin?”

“I don’t know what you saw,” he said, straightening. “But it’s not a big deal.”

A cold pinprick of recognition spread through me.

I stood slowly. “Ben. Is there a fork in your jacket?”

He raised both hands, palms out. “Wow, okay. Are you serious right now?”

“Did you take a fork from the table?”

He scoffed. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Thattrue-crime thing.Where everyone’s hiding something. It’s exhausting.”

I took a breath. “So you’re telling me there’snota fork in your pocket.”

Ben met my gaze. “There isnothingin my pocket that doesn’t belong to me.”

Something in me snapped.

Because I knew that tone—calm, dismissive, designed to make me question myself.

And I was done questioning.

I stepped around the table.

“Diana,” he said sharply. “Don’t.”

“I just want to see,” I said, already reaching.

“It’s not what you think—”

ButI’d already grabbed the lapel of his jacket.

“Diana—what are youdoing?” Ben hissed, jerking backward, but I was already pulling at the seam, reaching toward the inner pocket.

“Just let me see,” I hissed back. “If you didn’t take anything, then what’s the problem?”

He twisted out of my grip. Chairs scraped. A wineglass tipped, shattering like a gunshot.

We struggled—awkward, clumsy, too close. I caught the edge of his sleeve, and he shoved my hand away just as a passing waiter turned at the commotion.

And then:thunk.

A silver fork clattered to the ground beneath our table.

Everything froze.

Ben stared down at it. So did I.

For a second, no one moved.

The maître d’ was already striding toward us, two waiters in tow. Diners craned their necks. One woman had her phone out.

Ben backed away, breathing hard, hand clutching his upper arm where I must’ve caught him in the scramble. A thin line of blood bloomed across his sleeve.

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