Page 6 of Falling for My Matchmaker

I set the cup down carefully, pretending not to notice the subtle but unmistakable loosening across my hips.

Maybe it was fine.

Maybe onlyIhad heard it.

Maybe if I stayed completely still and casually draped the napkin across my lap, no one would ever know my skirt was staging a slow-motion mutiny.

Nate gave no indication anything was wrong.

He just smiled, leaned slightly forward, and said, "Diana, what do you like to do for fun?"

Right.

Fun.

Totally something I had.

"I listen to a lot of podcasts," I said, managing to sound only mildly unstable. "Mostly nonfiction. Real-world stuff. It’s...educational."

Nate smiled warmly. "That makes sense. Any favorites?"

I nodded. "True crime, mostly. I like stories based on real events. Actual people. It’s... I don’t know. More grounded. Less made-up drama."

"Reality over fiction," Nate said encouragingly. "Of course."

He sipped his coffee then asked casually, "What’s the last one you listened to?"

I hesitated a fraction too long.

And because I had no instinct for self-preservation, I answered: "Yesterday I listened to a show about this serial killer... He was targeting single women on dating apps."

Nate blinked once.

I plowed forward because, apparently, my soul had filed for early retirement. "He was this seemingly great guy," I said brightly. "Ran a community garden. Donated to local animal shelters. And then—you know—systematically isolated the women he dated until they disappeared."

I smiled like this was a completely normal conversation.

Nate set his coffee cup down very carefully, his face the picture of polite neutrality. "Wow," he said.

"Yeah," I said, nodding a little too fast. "Very informative. And a great narrator, too."

Nate tilted his head, smiling slightly. "So you find serial killer podcasts...relaxing?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I find them realistic."

"Of course," Nate said. "Just another reminder that even the nice guys who grow tomatoes might be plotting your untimely demise."

"Exactly," I replied, pleased to be understood.

I sipped my coffee—as much to buy time as to stop myself from blurting out anything else about murders or dismemberment—and tried not to think about the ticking time bomb under the table.

Eventually, I was going to have to stand up.

Nate leaned back, smiling at me in that steady, maddeningly patient way. "You want to ask me anything?"

I blinked. "Like what?"

He gave an easy shrug. "Mock dates go both ways. You’re allowed to be curious too."

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