Page 33 of Falling for My Matchmaker

Instead, he leaned back and dragged a hand through his hair. I pulled the strap of my dress back over my shoulder. Tried not to look like I was shaking a little.

We both reached for our glasses at the same time. Missed.

“Should we talk about this?” I asked, already regretting it.

He gave a small, exhausted laugh. “We should probably figure outwhatthis is first.”

Right.

That.

Because if I asked the question I really wanted to ask—Did you want that?—I wouldn’t know what to do with the answer either way.

So I stood up, smoothed my dress, and started looking for my phone.

Nate watched me. Silent, unreadable.

Then I found it. Lit up. Two missed messages.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Brad.”

He sat up straighter. “What?”

“My actual third date. It’s tonight. He’s picking me up in fifteen minutes.”

“You’re joking.”

I wasn’t.

Idesperatelywished I was.

“I lost track of time,” I muttered, scrambling toward the mirror to fix my face and pretend I hadn’t just tried to have sex with my matchmaker. “I thought I had more time.”

I could feel Nate behind me—not moving, not speaking. Just watching.

I applied lip balm like it was war paint. Tried to brush my hair. Failed.

He stood, buttoning his shirt slowly, methodically. As if by doing something normal, he could force the world back into alignment.

“I can go,” he said.

“You don’t have to—”

“I should,” he said. “You’ve got your real date.”

Real.

The word hit harder than it should’ve.

We moved around each other like strangers. Polite. Careful.

Avoiding eye contact the way people did when they'd just shared too much but weren’t ready to take it back.

I walked him to the door.

He paused, one hand on the frame, as if he might say something else.

He didn’t.

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