Page 3 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)

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 remember why you’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."

"Tell that to the guy who thinks sending three memes in a row counts as emotional intimacy," I muttered.

Lauren bumped her shoulder against mine. "Matchbox isn’t about apps or twenty-two-year-old gym bros. It's about real connection. Grown-up stuff. You know... Honesty, respect, stable internet."

"Wow," I said. "Be still my heart."

She laughed again then leaned her head against the back of the couch, suddenly serious. "You deserve someone who sees you," she said. "Not someone you have to convince."

I stared at her, throat tightening just a little. "You know," I said lightly, "you’re very annoying when you’re right."

Lauren grinned. "It's a gift."

My phone buzzed on the table.

Nate’s Zoom link.

Right. Showtime.

I stood, draining the rest of my wine like a magic elixir. "Wish me luck," I said, grabbing my laptop.

"You don’t need luck," Lauren called after me. "Just stop always assuming the worst. "

She winked, snagged the rest of the wine, and headed for the door without waiting for an argument.

I didn’t answer.

I just closed the door behind her, set my wineglass on the nightstand, and powered up my laptop—feeling vaguely like I was volunteering for my own public execution.

The Zoom window flickered to life, and there he was.

Nate, sitting in some cozy beige home office, looking exactly like the guy who’d loaned me his coat a few hours ago while I staged a slow-motion skirt implosion.

I tugged my sweatshirt closer around me and pretended I wasn’t still mortified.

"Hey," he said easily, like we were old friends. "How’s the wardrobe malfunction recovery?"

"Heroic," I said brightly. "Emergency sewing kit. Several prayers. Two emotional support cookies."

He grinned. "Glad to hear it. I had my team on standby with duct tape."

I snorted. "Next time, just bring a tarp."

"Noted for future mock dates," he said solemnly, tapping something on his screen.

I rolled my eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at my mouth.

"So," Nate said, settling back in his chair. "Want to talk about earlier today?"

"I thought that's why we're here," I said, gesturing at the screen like a magician unveiling a slightly disappointing trick.

Nate chuckled, maddeningly calm. No clipboard, no checklist. Just...waiting.

It made me itchy.

"You first," he said. "How do you think it went? "

I blew out a breath. "Probably a three out of...a hundred," I said. "Skirt disaster, serial killer small talk, complete lack of basic dignity. Truly a masterclass."

His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. "You sure?" he asked, voice warm and lightly skeptical.

"Sure I'm sure," I said. "I dazzled you with my survival instincts and my impressive ability to mentally plan an escape route mid-date."

He shook his head, laughing under his breath. Then he sobered a little. "Okay," he said more gently. "Real answer? You actually did great."

I blinked at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

"You asked for help when you needed it," he said. "You stayed present even when it got uncomfortable. And you let someone—me—help you. Those are huge. Bigger than any perfect first impression."

I snorted. "You make it sound like I unlocked a new level of emotional maturity. I asked for help because I had no other choice."

"Sometimes that's when it matters most," he said. Then, after a pause: "And sometimes sarcasm gets a little louder when we’re uncomfortable."

I stiffened. "I wasn’t uncomfortable," I said immediately.

(Too immediately.)

Nate tilted his head, patient as ever. "No judgment. It's a normal defense mechanism."

I crossed my arms. "Maybe I am just naturally hilarious under pressure."

He smiled—not laughing at me, but somehow...for me.

"You are. But you don’t have to armor up so much, Diana."

I swallowed. "Armor’s kind of my thing," I murmured, trying for flippant and landing somewhere closer to tired.

Nate leaned forward slightly, elbows on his desk, voice low and steady. "You deserve more than just surviving dates."

I stared at him, because somehow—impossibly—it sounded almost believable coming from him. And that was terrifying. "Some of us," I said carefully, "learn not to expect fireworks."

"You should," he said softly.

I shook my head.

"You live long enough, you realize fireworks just mean something’s about to explode."

He smiled a little, sad but stubborn. "It’s not about the fireworks," he said. "It’s about the risk. If you never let yourself hope for something bigger, how will you ever find it?"

I laughed—sharp, brittle. "Hope's how you get crushed. Low expectations are like seat belts—ugly, but they keep you alive."

Nate leaned back, studying me like I was a puzzle he wasn’t trying to solve—just trying to understand. "You’re not wrong," he said finally. "Hope is dangerous. But it’s also the only reason any of this is worth it."

I looked away, blinking hard at the corner of the screen where my own tired reflection stared back.

Because here's the thing you learn after enough broken hearts and carefully managed disappointments:

Love isn’t safe.

Love is stupid.

Love is humiliating.

And the only thing worse than losing it...is daring to want it in the first place.

"I’m fine with reality," I said coolly. "Reality’s underrated."

Nate didn’t argue. He just smiled—a small, quiet thing that somehow hurt more than any lecture. "For what it’s worth," he said, voice low, "I still think you deserve fireworks. Or whatever your version of them looks like."

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because if I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure I could still pretend I didn’t want exactly that.