Page 24 of Falling for My Matchmaker

There was a pause. Just long enough for all my insecurities to hold hands.

Brad, still charming, salvaged the silence. “We were going to try the Scorpio cocktail. Diana’s making me order the dangerous one.”

Nate raised an eyebrow. “Photobooth didn’t make the cut?”

Brad smiled. “Maybe after a few drinks. I’m camera shy.”

I blinked.

Camera shy? The man had a professional headshot on his dating profile, so airbrushed it could’ve passed for AI.

But sure.

Shyness. Lighting. Nothing to see here.

Nate just hummed—neutral, unreadable. “Smart move. Some of those hats are legally actionable.”

“I can pull off almost anything,” Brad said with an easy grin.

I did not like how Nate’s mouth twitched at that.

Rob, bless him, stepped in. “You two have fun. Don’t forget to try the cocktail. It might ruin your life, but in a good way.”

We murmured goodbyes and parted.

Half an hour later, I was midway through a very decent cocktail and nodding at Claudia—Senior Matchmaker, velvet dress, a mind like a scalpel—as she asked me polite questions about work.

Her eyes flicked across the room to Brad.

“Your date?” she asked lightly.

I nodded. “Brad.”

Her smile froze for a half-second. “Brad,” she echoed. “You know, I could swear I saw him on a dating app under another name a while back. Same photo. It was flagged, actually.”

My brain short-circuited for half a beat. “Flagged?”

“Oh, nothing serious,” she said quickly, already smoothing it over. “Could’ve been a duplicate. People get creative with names sometimes.”

“Right,” I said, my smile staying in place like a hostage situation. “Of course.”

She looked at me a second longer than necessary. Then tapped her glass to mine. “Just be careful. Handsome ones always make the messiest client files.”

And with that, she drifted away, leaving me with a glass of wine, a slightly raised heart rate, and a date who was either perfect...or not Brad at all.

Chapter 8: When Mouths Collide

After the rooftop party, Brad suggested we go somewhere quieter—just the two of us. Which was how all great second dates begin...and also most true-crime documentaries.

We ended up at a late-night restaurant on the edge of downtown—warm lighting, real candles, staff that didn’t hover. The kind of place that felt like it came with whispered conversations and clean silverware.

Brad ordered us a bottle of wine without asking, and I let him—mostly because the alternative was more decision-making, and I was fresh out.

“I’m glad we did this,” he said once we’d settled in. “That party was...interesting.”

“That’s one word,” I said.

“You seemed a little tense. Before I got there.”

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