Page 2 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)

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.

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

Maybe it was fine.

Maybe only I had 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."

I hesitated then tilted my head. "Okay," I said. "Where are you from?"

"Queens," he said. "Big family. Lots of opinions. Endless pasta. Occasional near-death experiences over board games."

I snorted. "And why matchmaking?" I asked.

Nate shrugged again, but there was something thoughtful under it. "I like helping people find things they stopped believing they could have," he said.

I stared at him a second longer than necessary, feeling something uncomfortable and traitorous flutter behind my ribs.

I shifted in my seat—and there it was again.

Pop.

Time to go.

"Well," I said, forcing a bright smile and sliding my bag onto my lap like a makeshift shield. "This has been...fun. But I should probably get going."

I was planning the safest way to stand up, when the door to the café blew open in a whoosh of cold air and sandalwood.

"Nathaniel!" a woman trilled across the room.

Nate immediately stood—reflexively, automatically, like a man bracing for impact.

I stayed seated.

Very seated.

Strategically bag-shielded, dignity-clinging seated .

A woman in flowing purple scarves and jangling bracelets beelined toward us, trailing two equally colorful backup singers. She radiated incense, goodwill, and catastrophic levels of maternal enthusiasm.

She stopped in front of Nate, beaming. "And who’s this beautiful young lady you're hiding over here?" she said, already reaching out like she was about to squeeze my cheeks.

"This is Diana, Mom," Nate said, easy and neutral.

Nothing else. No explanation. No client label. Just Diana.

His mom seemed delighted. "I knew it," she said, turning to her friends. "Didn't I say it, Marcy? I felt the energy shift the second I walked in."

"You did!" Marcy said, nodding solemnly. "Clear soulmate vibes."

I tried to shrink into my chair without physically disappearing.

Nate's mom turned back to me, hands fluttering like she might perform a laying-on of hands any second. "And you, sweetheart," she said, tilting her head thoughtfully. "You’re carrying a lot right now."

I froze harder.

Was she psychic? Did she somehow know about the imploding skirt? Was that what she meant by “carrying a lot”?

"You have a heavy energy," she said, tapping her temple knowingly. "But it’s temporary. You just need the right support."

She turned to Nate and patted him on the chest—once, twice. "You help her," she said warmly. "You’re good at that. You've always had a healing energy. Ever since you were little, remember? All these boys you brought home. "

Nate smiled—a patient, pained smile that said he remembered every second and had long since made his peace with it.

Marcy and the second backup singer murmured approval behind her.

I smiled—wide and stiff—like a person clinging to a ledge by two fingers.

His mom beamed at me like she’d just delivered a TED Talk.

I had absolutely no idea what to do with my face.

"Anyway!" she chirped. "I'll let you two get back to it."

She winked—actually winked—and sailed off toward the counter, trailing sandalwood and unsolicited emotional clarity behind her.

Nate sat back down slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry," he said lightly. "Didn’t introduce you as a client or anything—confidentiality clause. Let me know how you’d like me to handle it next time. My mother is...enthusiastic."

I blinked, still catching up. "She thinks we’re soulmates," I said.

"She thinks everyone’s a soulmate," Nate replied, deadpan. "She tried to set me up with the guy who makes her matcha lattes last month."

I snorted, caught off guard. Of course she did.

I tried hard not to overthink another sign of Nate very likely being gay. Just added it to the growing list of reasons why this was definitely not a real date.

Nate smiled—really smiled—and for a second, the chaos faded.

I shifted slightly.

Pop .

Right.

Still a hostage to my own wardrobe.

I hesitated, stared into my coffee cup, and finally muttered: "I might need your help. My skirt exploded. I need to hold it with both hands so that it doesn't fall off me.”

Nate blinked—a microsecond of surprise—and then his face smoothed back into calm professionalism. He peeled off his coat like it was part of the job description and handed it to me. "Here," he said. "No one’ll even notice."

I hesitated just long enough to pretend I had a choice then yanked it over my lap like it was a force field. "Thanks," I muttered.

Nate grinned—not mocking, just ridiculously calm. "For what it’s worth," he said, "asking for help is basically a relationship superpower."

I blinked.

I thought my superpower was regular self-humiliation, but sure.

"Would you like me to call a cab for you?” he asked.

“Please.”

He pulled out his phone, already a step ahead. "Cab’s two minutes. And we can debrief later tonight. Zoom—no dress code."

"Perfect," I said.

He lifted his coffee cup. "To surviving first dates. Fake or otherwise."

I lifted mine right back. "To surviving...me."

We clinked invisible glasses.

I slid off toward the door, wrapped in Nate’s coat and whatever was left of my pride.

And if I maybe smiled all the way to the curb, well... No witnesses, no proof.