Page 4 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)

The Matchbox consultation room still looked like a spa pretending to be a therapist’s office—soothing walls, a Himalayan salt lamp in the corner, and a throw pillow embroidered with open hearts attract open doors . I dropped into my usual chair. Nate glanced up.

“Just to recap—while we will be introducing you to curated matches from our network, we also support clients with anyone they meet on their own. Apps, setups, rogue baristas—you name it.”

“Rogue baristas,” I echoed. “Good to know.”

“We call this part recon,” he said cheerfully. “We will review your week, spot patterns, and maybe recalibrate the radar a bit.”

I shrugged and opened my last dating app on my phone. “Behold,” I said. “The worst of humanity, conveniently sorted into swipeable thumbnails.”

I slid my phone across the table.

Nate accepted it with the glee of someone opening a mystery box. “Great. Let’s do some recon. Ready?”

“Oh, I was born ready,” I said. “To mock people.”

He scrolled—and flinched. His eyebrows did the slow, horrified lift of a man encountering the worst of humanity, one profile at a time.

First profile: mirror selfie, glistening abs, captioned Just ask ;) .

"This guy," I said, pointing, "calls women 'females' and thinks emotional intelligence is a tequila brand. "

Nate chuckled. "Strong start."

Next: a conversation starting with a lone "Hey."

"Auto-ban," I declared. "If your opener doubles as a dial tone, we’re done."

Swipe. Bio: Work hard, play harder.

"Translation: won’t text back unless his Wi-Fi is down or he’s out of pre-workout."

Nate snorted.

Then there was a "How was your weekend?" message. Sent on a Tuesday.

"What am I supposed to say? 'Longer than your attention span'?"

He grinned but set the phone down. "You're great at spotting red flags," he said. "When’s the last time you spotted a green one?"

I blinked. "I’m just trying to avoid wasting time on sentient warning signs."

"Sure," Nate said, calm as ever. "But if your whole system’s set to Deflect and Destroy, how do you ever let anything in?"

I crossed my arms. "I know what I’m doing."

"I don’t doubt it," he said. "I just think your radar might be a little...overcalibrated."

I shrugged. "Better paranoid than partnered with a guy who says 'no drama' but has three exes in a group chat."

"Okay," he said. "So what’s a green flag to you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't live with his mom. Doesn’t call his ex ‘crazy.’ Isn’t allergic to sarcasm."

He waited a beat. "And emotionally?"

I rolled my eyes. "Why does it always have to get deep with you? "

Nate just shrugged. "Because otherwise, you’re shopping for a roommate, not a partner."

I squirmed. Green flags... "Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to audition? Like I have to sell myself just to be tolerated."

Nate nodded. "That’s closer. But I’ve noticed you spend a lot of time describing what you don’t want. Not so much what you do."

I looked away. "Maybe what I want doesn’t exist."

"Or maybe," he said gently, "you’re so used to disappointment, you stopped letting yourself want anything real."

Oof.

He said it like he wasn’t casually blowing up my defense system.

"Anyway," he continued, suddenly brisk. "Homework."

I groaned. "Here we go."

"Say yes to one thing this week you’d normally shut down. Just once."

"Like what? Accept a dinner invite from a guy whose profile pic is just his car?"

"Ideally someone who’s human," Nate said. "Just catch yourself next time you’re about to auto-reject. Pause. Consider. That’s all."

I gave him a long stare. "If this gets me abducted by some maniac, you’re covering my therapy."

Nate raised a hand. "Full financial responsibility."

** *

My couch had become a war zone. Blanket fortress: check. Half-eaten popcorn: check. Face of someone emotionally preparing to make contact with Earth's most disappointing species: double check.

I stared at the screen. Guy number forty-seven was good-looking and had his shirt on, but there was the phrase “Just ask” in the bio. I hovered over the red X.

Then Nate’s voice, infuriatingly calm, echoed in my head: Just once. Say yes to something you'd normally reject.

I groaned aloud, like a person being asked to donate a kidney.

"Fine," I muttered. Instead of pressing on the red X, I opened the chat and typed: Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?

Spoiler: I was about to find out.