Page 30 of Falling for My Matchmaker

“Even if—if—he were attracted to me,” I continued, emerging with a backup top I had no intention of wearing, “he’s my matchmaker. Matchmakers don’t date their own clients. That’s, like, page one of the rulebook.”

“And yet,” she said, tilting her head meaningfully, “you’re rearranging your furniture like it’s foreplay.”

“It’s a mock third date,” I said. “It’s basically homework.”

Lauren grinned. “You never wore lace for homework.”

I groaned and collapsed onto the bed next to her.

We lay there for a moment, side by side.

Then Lauren said, “Whatever this is—the sheets, the underwear, the candles—it’s not just about practice. Something’s shifting. You know that, right?”

I didn’t answer.

Mostly because I wasn’t sure if she was wrong.

Also because I was deeply committed to pretending that if I stayed facedown long enough, I’d just pass through the mattress and be reborn as someone with emotional clarity and a less flammable dating history.

Chapter 10: Boundaries and Other Fictional Concepts

I opened the door and three seconds too late realized the hallway lighting was way too intimate for someone I was allegedly doing professional boundary work with.

Nate stood there in dark jeans and a fitted black sweater that looked both expensive and like he hadn't thought about it at all. His expression was easy.

He laughed softly as he walked in. “Smells good in here.”

I resisted the urge to panic. The candles weresubtle. Ambience, not seduction. And I hadn’t worn perfume, just that vanilla-sandalwood body lotion that technically counted as neutral. Probably.

“You went all out,” he added, glancing around.

“I cleaned up,” I said defensively. “That’s not ‘all out.’ That’s hygiene.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

We stood there for a moment too long, and I realized I was holding my arms weirdly, like I was auditioning for a role calledwoman pretending she has casual shoulders.

“Wine?” I said, already heading for the kitchen.

Nate shook his head. “I don’t drink on the job.”

I paused mid-reach for the glasses, suddenly aware this was still technically a session. Coaching. A simulation. Whatever.

“Right,” I said. “Of course. Boundaries. Ethics. Responsible adulting.”

I let out a laugh that sounded like a balloon slowly deflating and gestured toward the couch, hoping to bury the wine offerunder a new layer of awkwardness. He didn’t say anything, which somehow made it worse. I perched at the edge of the cushion like I was expecting to be graded on posture and impulse control.

He looked completely at ease. One arm draped casually along the back of the couch, legs stretched out. The kind of calm that came from being in control. Of himself. Of the moment.

Meanwhile, I felt like I’d been emotionally tasered.

“It’s just that normally, I don’t have performance anxiety unless someone’s live-streaming my feelings.”

“You don’t have to perform,” he said gently. “This is for you.”

Right. Me and my deeply casual battle lingerie.

I was hyperaware of the distance between us—not quite touching, not quite far enough. I didn’t want to shift and make it weirder, but I also didn’t want to stay frozen like I was one wrong twitch away from disaster.

---