Page 37 of Falling for My Matchmaker

He laughed. “You’re funny.”

That was starting to feel like his default setting. Like he had five canned compliments and had rotated through three already.

The cabin door creaked slightly when he opened it, and I reminded myself again: not haunted. Not a crime scene. Just...wood. Old wood. Atmosphere.

He ushered me inside.

The inside of the cabin wasn’t cozy so much as curated—like someone had Googled “how to looktrustworthy” and bought everything on the list. Worn leather couch. Edison bulbs. Firewood stacked just-so. A massive knife set on the kitchen counter, gleaming under the overhead light.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Brad said casually, heading toward the knives. “I thought we could cook something together.”

My stomach tightened.

There were two wineglasses already out. A cutting board. Some vegetables and vacuum-sealed meat laid out like we were about to film a rustic cooking segment calledSurprise, You’re Trapped.

“You prepped all this?” I asked, hovering by the door like a polite hostage.

He smiled. “Just wanted it to feel welcoming. Low-pressure.”

Right. Because nothing sayslow-pressurelike a stranger with a chef’s knife and zero neighbors for miles.

Still, I nodded. “Very thoughtful.”

He picked up one of the knives and tested the weight in his hand, casually. Like he did this often. Like he’d done it before.

My phone was in my coat pocket.

No signal.

No bars.

And, officially, no appetite.

“It’s really...charming,” I said.

Brad grinned and disappeared into the small kitchen. “Red or white?”

“I—uh—red,” I called back, mentally rehearsing every exit I’d seen on the drive up.

He returned with a glass and that same practiced smile. “Relax. I’m not that guy.”

Funny. That’s whatthat guyalways said.

I accepted the wine. Took a sip. Tried to seem normal.

“So,” he said, settling into the couch like it was home, “you want to sit? Talk? Or just let the vibe happen?”

Nothing made me panic faster than an undefined vibe.

But I sat anyway.

I smiled. I crossed my legs.

The air seemed to shift. Not dramatically. Just a subtle drop—like the room had exhaled something it wasn’t supposed to.

I smiled—thin, brittle. Reached for my glass of wine like it could steady my hands.

This was fine. This was still recoverable. He was being romantic. Probably.

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