Page 1 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)

The office smelled like desperation and lemon-scented hand sanitizer.

Which, coincidentally, was exactly how I smelled after my latest dating app disaster: Desperate. Sanitized. And done.

I shifted in the too-plush lobby chair, trying not to wrinkle my blazer. Across from me, a woman in a satin blouse clutched a clipboard like it was a flotation device on the Titanic .

We locked eyes.

She gave me a tight, panicked smile.

I gave her my best yes, we're both pathetic, let's move on nod.

Look, I didn’t want to be here. I was thirty-two, single, and after fifteen months of re-downloading and re-deleting dating apps like it was my part-time job, I’d finally broken.

Or rather, my best friend Lauren broke me—with a birthday gift I couldn’t return.

A “curated matchmaking experience” from a boutique agency called Matchbox .

Happy birthday, Diana. You're officially too jaded to DIY your love life.

Fine. I could admit that modern dating had all the charm of a root canal performed by a magician.

But still—a matchmaking agency? Sitting here felt like giving up.

Like admitting love wasn't something you found by accident anymore.

It was something you scheduled between conference calls and gym sessions.

Romance as logistics.

God, I missed being twenty-two and stupid.

"Ms. Martin?"

A warm voice pulled me out of my spiral. I looked up.

And immediately regretted it.

Because standing there was him .

Twenty-something, probably. Movie-star smile. Shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off forearms that could bench-press my entire emotional baggage collection.

I blinked.

Then blinked again because no way was this real.

"You’re...my matchmaker," I said flatly.

He smiled, all sunshine and earnestness. "That’s right. I’m Nate. Nice to meet you. Please follow me."

God help me. I'd been assigned a boy-band matchmaker.

Was this a prank? Did they assign me a trainee because I checked the "high-risk case" box?

Or—a worse thought—maybe he wasn’t even straight.

Honestly, with those cheekbones and that level of personal grooming, it felt statistically likely.

Maybe he was here to be my emotional support gay bestie. That would track.

Still half-expecting a hidden camera to pop out, I stood.

Nate gestured toward a hallway with a grin that probably melted sorority girls for miles.

God. I bet he thought he understood what dating in your thirties was like.

Meanwhile, I was out here up against tech bros, TikTok thirst traps, and guys who thought two pillows made them husband material.

Sure , I thought as I followed him. This is going to go great.

The consultation room was aggressively neutral: cream walls, soft lighting, inspirational posters about "finding your spark."

There was a tray of artisanal bottled water so expensive it probably had its own LinkedIn page.

I sat stiffly. Nate sat across from me, flipping open a tablet like he was about to conduct a very gentle police interrogation.

"Before we jump in," he said, "I just want to say—this is a judgment-free zone. No awkwardness, no pressure. My job is to help you find a connection that feels authentic to you."

He said it so sincerely, I almost believed him.

Almost.

"Right," I said. "Judgment-free. Like a TSA screening."

Nate chuckled—actually chuckled—and jotted something down.

Probably: Subject displays early signs of bitterness. May require exorcism.

"Let’s start with the basics," he said, tapping on his screen. "How long has it been since your last serious relationship?"

I stared at him.

He waited, open and patient.

"Depends how you define serious," I said. "We lived together. Owned matching spatulas. Thought about buying a dog."

Nate nodded. "Sounds serious. How long ago?"

I picked at the label on my artisanal water bottle. "A little over a year."

Technically, it had been two years, two months, and six days since the Great Breakup of Doom, but who was counting?

That is to say: me. Definitely me.

Ben said I had trust issues . He thought it was weird that I liked true-crime podcasts. Said it was “dark” and “concerning” that I fell asleep listening to people discuss evidence chains. He said I was always waiting for people to screw up.

But out loud, all I said now was—

"He said I had trouble trusting people."

Nate nodded, still patient. God, that face could disarm a whole army of jaded thirty-somethings.

"Would you say that’s true?"

I hesitated. "I think I trust people to be themselves. I just don’t always like what that turns out to be."

He smiled slightly, tapping something on his screen. "Noted. Let's talk about what you’re hoping to find now."

Ah, the million-dollar question.

"A man who isn’t emotionally constipated, married, or under the impression that the phrase ‘looking for a vibe’ counts as a personality," I said. "Preferably someone with a steady job and all his original teeth."

Nate grinned. "Setting the bar nice and low. Smart."

I laughed—an involuntary, startled sound—and immediately glared at him like it was his fault.

"You know, so many clients come in with a six-page checklist," he continued. "Honestly, authenticity’s a great starting point."

I shifted, uncomfortable. "Authentically jaded, sure."

Because here’s the thing no one tells you when you hit your thirties still single: The dating pool isn't a pool anymore.

It's a muddy puddle full of lost flip-flops, beer cans, and a few tired frogs pretending they might still turn into princes.

And some days, it feels like you're the only idiot still hoping to find something worth fishing out.

"You might be surprised," Nate said, still sunny enough to heal my seasonal depression. "Sometimes the best matches happen when people least expect it. Two of our clients met because of a system bug."

God, I hated how his voice made hope sound like a strategy.

"Yeah, well, I’m not looking for a movie montage," I muttered. "I just want someone who shows up when he says he will."

Nate scribbled something down, smiling a little to himself. "We'll work on that."

I narrowed my eyes. "Work on what?"

He leaned back, easy, relaxed.

"Letting yourself want more than the bare minimum."

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Because damn him, he said it without an ounce of judgment. Like he actually meant it.

"Anyway," Nate said briskly, flipping to the next page like he hadn’t just casually gutted me, "let’s talk about what you’re looking for—beyond steady employment and functional dentistry."

Nate clicked to the next section of the intake form, still watching me carefully.

"I’m going to walk you through a quick exercise," he said. "Close your eyes. Picture your ideal partner. What do you feel?"

What I felt was a growing suspicion that I should have lied on the intake form and said I was allergic to nonsense.

Still, I humored him .

Because if I was going to bomb out of this whole thing, I might as well earn my gold star for effort.

I closed my eyes.

Breathed in.

Breathed out.

And tried to picture the mythical creature known as "a decent man."

Nothing. Just static.

I cracked one eye open. Nate was still there, all calm encouragement.

Which somehow just made it worse.

"You look like you’re about to bolt," he said, grinning.

"Is it that obvious?"

He laughed, easy and relaxed, like he knew exactly how ridiculous this whole thing felt to me—and wasn’t about to hold it against me.

"Relax," he said. "I’m not here to make you do trust falls or share your deepest fears. Unless you want to."

I gave him a look that could have flattened a lesser man.

He just smiled wider, the jerk.

"Fine," I muttered. "Walk me through how this...circus...is supposed to work."

He launched into the agency’s pitch: personality matching, value alignment, compatibility analysis, some vague hand-waving about "emotional resonance" that made me want to ask for a refund on principle.

I barely managed not to roll my eyes when he said the words "soulmate potential" with a straight face.

"And," he continued, flipping his tablet around to show me a disturbingly cheerful flowchart titled Your Path to Lasting Love , "your package also includes personalized coaching sessions."

He looked up at me. "No pressure. Just support. And since I’m your assigned matchmaker, I’ll also be your coach."

I blinked at him, skeptical.

"You’re going to coach me?" I asked, crossing my arms.

He smiled—not flustered. "That's right."

I stared at him for a long beat.

"Honestly?" I said. "I figured I'd be paired with someone older. Possibly another woman. Married or divorced. Maybe with a mortgage and some permanent back pain."

Someone who could show me battle scars instead of abs.

Nate chuckled—low and easy—but didn't flinch. "You want someone who's been through it all," he said. "Someone who's already made all the mistakes."

"Exactly."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, voice low but steady.

"Sometimes experience means people have already decided what love should look like—for everyone else. I’m not here to force you into a mold. I'm here to actually listen. To figure out what makes sense for you—not for anyone else."

There was no arrogance in it. No trying to sell me something.

I grabbed my water like a shield. "Fine," I said. "But if you start quoting inspirational Pinterest boards at me, I’m out."

Nate smiled—real, unbothered—and tapped something on his tablet. "No vision boards. No trust falls. I promise. "

He flipped to the next section. "So," he continued, "mock dates. Low pressure. Helps me get a real sense of your energy when you’re not overthinking it."

"You mean like this?" I said, gesturing between us.

He grinned. "This is intake. Mock dates are...different."

I narrowed my eyes. "Different how?"

"You’ll see."

Which was either ominous or flirty, and I hated that I couldn’t tell.

"I don’t do fake flirting," I muttered. "Or real flirting, for that matter."

Nate leaned back, smiling like this was the best part of his day. "Good news," he said easily. "You’ll be terrible at it. Which means there's nowhere to go but up."

I glared at him, but it was halfhearted.

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't actually date clients. Agency policy."

Right. Of course.

Not shocking.

I wouldn’t date me 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."