Page 5 of Falling for My Matchmaker

He just smiled—steady, patient—like he had all the time in the world.

And somehow, against all better judgment, it made me want to believe him.

"Fine," I said finally, setting my water down like I was planting a flag. "Let’s do your stupid mock dates."

His smile widened—not victorious, exactly, but something close to relief. He tapped something into his tablet then looked back at me, a little more serious. "Just so you know," he added briskly, "matchmakers don'tactuallydate clients. Agency policy."

Right. Of course.

Not shocking.

I wouldn’t dateme either, if I had a choice.

"Good," I muttered, forcing a tight smile. "Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea."

Nate’s mouth quirked at the corner. "For the record," he said lightly, "I always try to do what’s right, even when it’s inconvenient."

"Me too," I said. "Just, you know. Results may vary."

Chapter 2: Definitely Not a Date

There were worse ways to spend a Thursday afternoon than going on a fake date with your disturbingly attractive matchmaker.

Probably.

Somewhere in the world.

I adjusted my jacket and smoothed down the skirt I’d bought specifically for this. It was technically a little too tight—one of those clearance-rack victories where you convince yourself you'll "stretch into it." But I looked good. Sophisticated. Put-together. The kind of woman who absolutely had her life together and definitely wasn’t fake-dating a man looking ten years younger than necessary.

I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and headed toward the table.

Nate was already there, sitting by the window like he was auditioning for a lifestyle magazine spread.

Sunlight caught the edges of his blond hair, his sleeves were rolled up, and a mug was balanced casually in one hand.

The worst part?

He wasn’t even trying.

"Hey," he said, smiling up at me like I was exactly the person he’d been hoping for.

"Let’s get this over with," I said brightly, dumping my bag onto the chair opposite him.

Nate laughed—not mockingly, just amused—and slid a coffee cup toward me. "I took a guess," he said.

I narrowed my eyes. "You looked at my intake survey, didn’t you?"

He shrugged. "Matchmaker’s prerogative."

I smirked, taking a sip—and that’s when it happened.

A faint, stomach-turning pop. Coming from my skirt.

I froze mid-sip.

The world kept spinning.

Nate smiled politely, either oblivious or blessedly pretending he hadn’t heard anything.

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