Page 44 of Falling for My Matchmaker

But maybe soon.

Chapter 13: One Month Later

The pen was heavy.

Not metaphorically. Like, literally. It was one of those gold ones lawyers hand you when they want you to feel the weight of capitalism.

Across the conference table, my attorney gave me a subtle nod. On the other side, Brad’s lawyer looked like he wanted to be anywhere else—possibly a hedge fund bunker or a hot yoga class with no witnesses.

I signed the final page.

And just like that, I was $200,000 closer to inner peace.

“Any questions before we finalize?” my lawyer asked.

“Just one,” I said. “Does accepting this mean I have to stop telling the story at parties?”

The opposing counsel cleared his throat. “You agreed not to name him publicly.”

“Right,” I said, smiling. “But can I still say ‘a man who once attempted emotional intimacy through unsolicited knife monologue’?”

He blinked. My lawyer sighed.

I stood, collected the copy of the agreement, and walked out of the building with the calm certainty of a woman who had just weaponized her trauma into financial solvency.

I was halfway down the block when I saw him.

Nate. Leaning against a lamppost like he was posing for a Matchbox ad he hadn’t agreed to. Charcoal coat, coffee in hand, expression soft but unreadable.

Of course he was early. Of course he was holding a coffee for me, too—lid already labeled.

“You really don’t believe in texts?” I called out as I approached.

He held out the coffee. “This felt more poetic.”

I took it. “What are we doing, exactly? Closure? Debrief? You going to give me a final evaluation score?”

He smiled—that calm, infuriating, see-through-you smile. “Something like that.” He nodded toward the street. “Walk with me?”

So we did. Past the courthouse, past a dog wearing a sweater, past a vendor selling chestnuts no one ever seemed to buy. He didn’t rush. I didn’t fill the silence. We just walked like people who didn’t need an excuse anymore.

We ended up on a quiet bench just off the main drag, half-shielded from the wind by a crooked row of hedges and the luck of good timing. Nate reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

“I waited the full thirty days.”

I blinked. “What?”

He handed me the page. It was an official-looking document. Matchbox exit protocol, stamped and signed.

“Thirty-day grace period post-client closure before matchmaker may ethically pursue a personal relationship,” I read aloud.

“Claudia made me sign it,” he said. “So I wouldn’t pull something reckless and romantic. Which is apparently my new brand.”

I stared at him.

“I didn’t want to cross any lines,” he said. “You weren’t just a client. You were—”

“Emotionally unstable? Occasionally funny?”

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