Page 9 of Falling for My Matchmaker

The knock came just as I was contemplating whether putting on real pants for a Zoom call counted as personal growth.

I cracked the door to my room open to find my roommate Lauren standing there, beaming and holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a bag of chips in the other.

"Emergency provisions," she announced.

I stepped aside, sighing. "You are a menace."

She breezed in, already kicking off her shoes. "You have a Zoom date with your super-hot matchmaker. Of course I’m bringing wine."

"It’s not a date," I muttered, snatching the bottle from her. "It’s a debrief. A post-mortem. Like an autopsy, but you’re not dead. So it actually hurts."

Lauren grinned and flopped onto the couch, cradling the chips like a newborn. "Definitely sounds like you’ll need a drink."

I rummaged for glasses—the real ones, not the chipped coffee mugs I usually used—and poured us both a heavy-handed dose.

Lauren took a sip and studied me over the rim.

"So," she said. "Tell me everything."

"There’s nothing to tell," I said, plopping down beside her. "We had coffee. My skirt exploded. He was irritatingly nice about it."

Lauren's eyes sparkled. "And stupidly attractive—you forgot that part."

I groaned. "Trust me, the cheekbones are a trap. But it looks like he’s gay...or bi? But in any case... He’s a matchmaker, not a...whatever."

"A 'whatever'?" Lauren teased. "Sounds serious."

I threw a chip at her. She caught it mid-air like a smug puppy.

"You realize," Lauren said, kicking her feet up on the coffee table, "this whole situation is basically my dream come true."

"You dreaming about my humiliation is deeply concerning."

"No," she said, laughing. "You giving this a real shot. Letting yourself have something good."

I sipped my wine, focusing very hard on the nonexistent stain on the carpet.

"You do rememberwhyyou’re signed up for this, right?" Lauren pressed gently.

"Because you hate me," I deadpanned.

She grinned. "Because it worked for me."

Right.

Lauren, perfect glowing Lauren, who'd met her fiancé through Matchbox six months ago. Apparently, her matchmaker—a woman named Jessie—had been some kind of dating savant, blending psychology and voodoo into a perfect human cocktail of "forever after."

"You’re forgetting something important," I said, swirling my glass. "You’re twenty-eight, beautiful, and still basically bulletproof."

Lauren scoffed. "You’re beautiful."

I gave her a flat look. "Fine," I said. "Let’s compromise. I’m...presentable. A normal woman in her thirties who somehow still has her ass attached."

"Still?" Lauren cackled. "Your ass could win awards."

"Yeah, in a very niche category, like 'congratulations for hanging in there; gravity’s coming for you'."

She snorted, nearly spilling her wine. "But seriously," she said, softer now. "You’re not too old, or too late, or too anything, Di."

---