Page 3 of Falling for My Matchmaker

Nate grinned. "Setting the bar nice and low. Smart."

I laughed—an involuntary, startled sound—and immediately glared at him like it was his fault.

"You know, so many clients come in with a six-page checklist," he continued. "Honestly, authenticity’s a great starting point."

I shifted, uncomfortable. "Authentically jaded, sure."

Because here’s the thing no one tells you when you hit your thirties still single: The dating pool isn't a pool anymore. It's a muddy puddle full of lost flip-flops, beer cans, and a few tired frogs pretending they might still turn into princes. Andsome days, it feels like you're the only idiot still hoping to find something worth fishing out.

"You might be surprised," Nate said, still sunny enough to heal my seasonal depression. "Sometimes the best matches happen when people least expect it. Two of our clients met because of a system bug."

God, I hated how his voice made hope sound like a strategy.

"Yeah, well, I’m not looking for a movie montage," I muttered. "I just want someone who shows up when he says he will."

Nate scribbled something down, smiling a little to himself. "We'll work on that."

I narrowed my eyes. "Work on what?"

He leaned back, easy, relaxed.

"Letting yourself want more than the bare minimum."

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Because damn him, he said it without an ounce of judgment. Like he actually meant it.

"Anyway," Nate said briskly, flipping to the next page like he hadn’t just casually gutted me, "let’s talk about what you’re looking for—beyond steady employment and functional dentistry."

Nate clicked to the next section of the intake form, still watching me carefully.

"I’m going to walk you through a quick exercise," he said. "Close your eyes. Picture your ideal partner. What do you feel?"

What I felt was a growing suspicion that I should have lied on the intake form and said I was allergic to nonsense.

Still, I humored him.

Because if I was going to bomb out of this whole thing, I might as well earn my gold star for effort.

I closed my eyes.

Breathed in.

Breathed out.

And tried to picture the mythical creature known as "a decent man."

Nothing. Just static.

I cracked one eye open. Nate was still there, all calm encouragement.

Which somehow just made it worse.

"You look like you’re about to bolt," he said, grinning.

"Is it that obvious?"

He laughed, easy and relaxed, like he knew exactly how ridiculous this whole thing felt to me—and wasn’t about to hold it against me.

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