Page 10 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)
I opened the door and three seconds too late realized the hallway lighting was way too intimate for someone I was allegedly doing professional boundary work with.
Nate stood there in dark jeans and a fitted black sweater that looked both expensive and like he hadn't thought about it at all. His expression was easy.
He laughed softly as he walked in. “Smells good in here.”
I resisted the urge to panic. The candles were subtle . Ambience, not seduction. And I hadn’t worn perfume, just that vanilla-sandalwood body lotion that technically counted as neutral. Probably.
“You went all out,” he added, glancing around.
“I cleaned up,” I said defensively. “That’s not ‘all out.’ That’s hygiene.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
We stood there for a moment too long, and I realized I was holding my arms weirdly, like I was auditioning for a role called woman pretending she has casual shoulders .
“Wine?” I said, already heading for the kitchen.
Nate shook his head. “I don’t drink on the job.”
I paused mid-reach for the glasses, suddenly aware this was still technically a session. Coaching. A simulation. Whatever.
“Right,” I said. “Of course. Boundaries. Ethics. Responsible adulting.”
I let out a laugh that sounded like a balloon slowly deflating and gestured toward the couch, hoping to bury the wine offer under a new layer of awkwardness.
He didn’t say anything, which somehow made it worse.
I perched at the edge of the cushion like I was expecting to be graded on posture and impulse control.
He looked completely at ease. One arm draped casually along the back of the couch, legs stretched out. The kind of calm that came from being in control. Of himself. Of the moment.
Meanwhile, I felt like I’d been emotionally tasered.
“It’s just that normally, I don’t have performance anxiety unless someone’s live-streaming my feelings.”
“You don’t have to perform,” he said gently. “This is for you.”
Right. Me and my deeply casual battle lingerie.
I was hyperaware of the distance between us—not quite touching, not quite far enough. I didn’t want to shift and make it weirder, but I also didn’t want to stay frozen like I was one wrong twitch away from disaster.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low.
“Totally. Just...overthinking.”
“That’s allowed.”
He turned slightly, angling his body toward mine, and that tiny movement felt like a seismic shift.
I looked down at my glass, swirling it for no reason. When I looked back up, he was watching me. Focused. Present.
His fingers reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
I didn’t flinch, but I definitely stopped breathing for half a second.
“Okay?” he asked .
“Yeah,” I said. “That was very...boundary-aware of you.”
“Just checking.”
He didn’t move his hand away.
His thumb grazed the line of my cheekbone, soft and warm and completely disarming.
“Still okay?”
I nodded, barely.
My chest felt tight—not in the panic way. In the is this happening? way.
I met his eyes. They were steady, unreadable as always, but there was something under the surface now. Not clinical. Not neutral. Just... quiet attention .
“You’re allowed to stop me,” he said again, gently.
“I know.”
My voice barely came out.
I didn’t stop him.
His hand tilted slightly, cupping my jaw now, and I tilted my head instinctively.
God, he smelled like cedar and wine and the exact kind of trouble I wasn’t supposed to get into tonight.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
I could’ve said no.
Could’ve made a joke.
Could’ve asked if this was part of the lesson.
Instead, I leaned forward.
And kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic or sudden. It wasn’t a collision.
It was soft. Careful. A question and an answer at the same time.
His lips met mine, slow and warm. His thumb brushed along my jaw as he deepened it—just a little.
And that was when my brain officially left the building.
Or, more accurately, tried to—only to run face-first into a wall of what is happening.
Because this was not like kissing Brad.
Brad had been polite. Efficient. Like an HR-approved intimacy tutorial.
This?
This was...heated. Like Nate wasn’t just kissing me—he was reading me, one layer at a time.
My heart stumbled. My body responded—in that instinctive, nonnegotiable way that had nothing to do with logic or mock-date outlines.
And suddenly I was very aware of how much he was into this.
Not just participating. Not just facilitating.
Into it.
This didn’t feel like a coaching exercise. This felt like hunger with manners.
Which raised the question:
How gay was Nate, exactly?
The way his hips pressed against mine left no room for misinterpretation.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do with that.
So I kept kissing him.
I felt his hand skim under my dress, just above the knee.
And then he paused.
His hand froze on my leg like it had suddenly realized it wasn’t cleared for landing. His breathing hitched. He didn’t speak, didn’t move—just sat there with his eyes closed, like he wasn’t totally sure what planet we were on anymore.
“Are we...doing this?” I asked.
Nate let out a low mhhmm —it wasn’t a word so much as a vowel in crisis. After what seemed like an eternity, he opened his eyes and exhaled.
“I don’t know,” he said. His voice had that confused, slowed-down quality of someone who’d forgotten where they left their moral compass.
I blinked up at him—my dress halfway off one shoulder, his shirt half unbuttoned. We were flushed, breathing hard, skin warm against skin...and somehow still standing on the edge of something neither of us had expected to find.
We didn’t move.
Just...hovered there. Tangled up in the pause. In the maybe.
“I thought this was for me,” I said finally. “You know—practice. Boundaries. Exposure therapy with wine.”
“It was,” he said. “It is. ”
“But also not?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he leaned back and dragged a hand through his hair. I pulled the strap of my dress back over my shoulder. Tried not to look like I was shaking a little.
We both reached for our glasses at the same time. Missed.
“Should we talk about this?” I asked, already regretting it.
He gave a small, exhausted laugh. “We should probably figure out what this is first. ”
Right.
That.
Because if I asked the question I really wanted to ask— Did you want that? —I wouldn’t know what to do with the answer either way.
So I stood up, smoothed my dress, and started looking for my phone.
Nate watched me. Silent, unreadable.
Then I found it. Lit up. Two missed messages.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Brad.”
He sat up straighter. “What?”
“My actual third date. It’s tonight. He’s picking me up in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re joking.”
I wasn’t.
I desperately wished I was.
“I lost track of time,” I muttered, scrambling toward the mirror to fix my face and pretend I hadn’t just tried to have sex with my matchmaker. “I thought I had more time.”
I could feel Nate behind me—not moving, not speaking. Just watching.
I applied lip balm like it was war paint. Tried to brush my hair. Failed.
He stood, buttoning his shirt slowly, methodically. As if by doing something normal, he could force the world back into alignment.
“I can go,” he said.
“You don’t have to—”
“I should,” he said. “You’ve got your real date.”
Real.
The word hit harder than it should’ve .
We moved around each other like strangers. Polite. Careful.
Avoiding eye contact the way people did when they'd just shared too much but weren’t ready to take it back.
I walked him to the door.
He paused, one hand on the frame, as if he might say something else.
He didn’t.
Instead, he looked at me once, nodded slightly—that maddening, neutral Nate nod—and walked out.
I stood there for a full ten seconds then turned around, leaned back against the closed door, and exhaled so hard I felt my lungs empty into the floor.
What the hell just happened?
I didn’t have time to answer.
Not now.
Not with Brad pulling up outside, right on cue.
Perfect timing.
Perfect guy.
And me—in absolutely no condition to be kissed again by anyone .
But the doorbell rang, and I smiled like it didn’t ache.
Time for the real date.
Whatever that meant anymore.