Page 5 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)

Nate was already seated when I walked in, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, looking disgustingly well-rested for someone who voluntarily worked in the emotional triage unit known as modern dating.

“I did the thing. I said yes. To a date. With a mysterious stranger. Who had ‘Just ask’ in his profile,” I said, collapsing into the chair across from him. “We’ll meet the day after tomorrow. It’d better be good, coach.”

He chuckled, already tapping something into his tablet. “Well, the point wasn’t perfection. It was momentum. You took a risk. That’s progress.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I live for controlled chaos,” he said. Then, without missing a beat, he swiped to a new screen and turned the tablet toward me. “Speaking of which—I’ve got a new candidate for you.”

He grinned. “Based on your intake and your pattern notes—what you respond to, not just what you say you want—I think this one’s a good fit.”

He turned the screen toward me.

BEN F.

No photo. Just a clean, ad-looking profile: thirty-three, undergrad degree from Brown, creative director at a boutique branding agency in Tribeca.

The kind of job that meant he probably drank pour-over coffee, wore tailored joggers to client meetings, and had very strong opinions about serif fonts .

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re setting me up with a faceless man?”

“No photo?” he confirmed, preempting the protest. “Correct. We’re running a pilot. A two-phase system—psychological compatibility first, visual profiles second. The idea is to disrupt some of the usual filters that keep people in the same dating loop.”

Nate paused. “I met with him in person, too,” he added reassuringly. “Smart guy, funny, great conversationalist. And—just so you know—very attractive.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Attractive how? Like you’d date him attractive?”

Nate glanced up, unbothered. “Attractive like ‘a client who gets a lot of matches’ attractive.”

Right. Of course. Nothing to overanalyze here. Just regular, completely gender-neutral matchmaking commentary.

“So, you’re telling me this guy is cute, artsy, emotionally available, and...likes women?”

Nate didn’t flinch. “He’s been through the full Matchbox intake. And he scored highly compatible with your profile.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And his name is...Ben F.?”

He nodded. “You’ll meet for dinner. Matchbox covers it. Neutral setting, no pressure. You don’t owe him anything but a conversation.”

I looked back at Nate. “And if I say no?”

“You won’t,” he said simply.

I scoffed. “Oh really?”

“Because you’re curious. Because you’re stuck. And because deep down, you know I’m right. ”

I glared at him, but it was halfhearted. He had that maddening twinkle again—the kind that made it hard to tell if he was flirting or just really good at his job.

“Dinner’s at seven. Reservation’s under Diana,” he said, already sending a follow-up email to my phone. “Wear whatever makes you feel like you have your life together. Or fake it. Either works.”

I picked up my bag like I was heading into battle. “This is going to end with me crying into ravioli, isn’t it?”

“Possibly,” Nate said. “But at least it’ll be artisanal ravioli.”

***

The restaurant was too nice.

Not suspiciously nice, but...suspicious-adjacent. White tablecloths. Candles that flickered just a bit too romantically. A waiter who offered me sparkling or still before I even sat down.

Matchbox really went for it.

Maybe, I thought, smoothing my dress, this wouldn’t be terrible.

Maybe “Ben F.” was just an unfortunate name shared by thousands of emotionally available strangers in their thirties and not, say, the human landmine who dumped me three years ago.

Then I saw him.

And the floor dropped out from under my shoes.

Ben.

That Ben.

Sitting at a table set for two, blinking in surprise, looking older—not drastically, but enough that I noticed the slight lines at the corners of his mouth, the sharper jawline he always insisted would “emerge with age.”

Apparently it had. Good for him.

“Diana,” he said, standing halfway, stunned.

“Ben,” I echoed.

There was a long pause. Not angry. Not awkward. Just...stunned silence.

Then I surprised both of us by smiling. “Wow. Okay. Hi.”

He laughed—soft and a little unsure. “Hi. I, uh, didn’t see a photo. I had no idea...”

“Same,” I said, gesturing toward the table. “May I?”

“Please,” he said, pulling out the chair like he’d never broken up with me over tacos.

I sat, smoothing my dress, heart thudding in a way I hadn’t expected.

Maybe this wasn’t a cosmic joke.

Maybe it was...a sign?

People change. People grow. Maybe the timing had just been off before. And maybe, just maybe, the algorithm had looped us back to each other for a reason.

It started...normal. Surprisingly normal. We ordered wine. Made awkward jokes about destiny and the horrors of adult dating. Ben commented on the tableware.

“Wow,” he said, turning the fork in his hand like it was a museum piece. “Actual silver. You can tell by the weight.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you afraid of vampires?”

He smiled. “Nah. Just...appreciate craftsmanship now, I guess. ”

I told him I liked his jacket, even though I didn’t—it was trying way too hard to whisper “East Coast legacy,” when it screamed my mom still buys my dress shoes.

He said I looked “elegant and intimidating,” which I chose to take as a compliment.

Somewhere between the appetizers and the wine, I tilted my head, gauging the moment, and said, “So. This is weird. But kind of...nice?”

Ben nodded, seeming sincere. “It is. Unexpected. But maybe a good unexpected.”

His eyes were warm. His tone was soft.

And for a flicker of a moment, I let myself believe it.

Until I decided to heal my past trauma.

“So,” I said carefully, “when we broke up, you said I was obsessive. Do you still think I was?”

Ben shrugged. “You kinda were. You always listened to these true-crime podcasts and thought everyone was an undercover killer or con. You used to check my Venmo history.”

“I was curious why you were paying someone named ‘Ariel’ three times a week.”

“She was my yoga instructor!”

“She had a flower emoji.”

He waved that away. “Whatever. Water under the bridge.”

I took a sip of my wine. It was excellent. Matchbox really didn’t skimp on low-success-rate clients.

“So, how did you end up with Matchbox?” I asked.

“Well...” Ben took a sip of wine. “I’ve been seeing someone since we split. Nothing serious, but...you know. Light.”

I nodded politely, pretending not to hear the faint crack in my own emotional dam .

“She was great,” he added, “until she started accusing me of stealing.”

That got my attention. “What?”

Ben laughed—actually laughed, like it was funny. “Yeah. Said her grandmother’s necklace went missing. Insisted I took it. Total paranoia. Classic attachment anxiety.”

I blinked. “Wait, are you saying...she didn’t find it?”

“Nope. Just vanished.” He took a bite of risotto. “I told her to check under the couch cushions. She dumped me.”

I stared.

Something started churning in the back of my brain.

Not paranoia.

Not jealousy.

Just...static. A buzz of memory.

“You know,” I said slowly, “that’s weird. Because when we broke up...I couldn’t find that silver locket I used to wear. The one from my aunt.”

He looked up, still chewing. “Huh.”

“You said I probably lost it.”

“You probably did.”

I frowned.

Then it happened.

Ben shifted in his seat to reach for his phone, and I caught a flash of something metallic tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Silver. Curved. Ornate.

It caught the light just enough to make my stomach turn.

I leaned forward slightly. “What’s that? In your pocket.”

Ben blinked. “What? ”

“Your jacket. I just saw something. Did you...put something in there?”

He glanced down then back up, too quickly. “No?”

I stared. “Ben.”

He gave a laugh, light and a little forced. “Okay, relax. It’s just—God, I don’t know—maybe a napkin or something.”

“A silver napkin?”

“I don’t know what you saw,” he said, straightening. “But it’s not a big deal.”

A cold pinprick of recognition spread through me.

I stood slowly. “Ben. Is there a fork in your jacket?”

He raised both hands, palms out. “Wow, okay. Are you serious right now?”

“Did you take a fork from the table?”

He scoffed. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That true-crime thing. Where everyone’s hiding something. It’s exhausting.”

I took a breath. “So you’re telling me there’s not a fork in your pocket.”

Ben met my gaze. “There is nothing in my pocket that doesn’t belong to me.”

Something in me snapped.

Because I knew that tone—calm, dismissive, designed to make me question myself.

And I was done questioning.

I stepped around the table.

“Diana,” he said sharply. “Don’t.”

“I just want to see,” I said, already reaching.

“It’s not what you think—”

But I’d already grabbed the lapel of his jacket.

“Diana—what are you doing ?” Ben hissed, jerking backward, but I was already pulling at the seam, reaching toward the inner pocket.

“Just let me see,” I hissed back. “If you didn’t take anything, then what’s the problem?”

He twisted out of my grip. Chairs scraped. A wineglass tipped, shattering like a gunshot.

We struggled—awkward, clumsy, too close. I caught the edge of his sleeve, and he shoved my hand away just as a passing waiter turned at the commotion.

And then: thunk .

A silver fork clattered to the ground beneath our table.

Everything froze.

Ben stared down at it. So did I.

For a second, no one moved.

The ma?tre d’ was already striding toward us, two waiters in tow. Diners craned their necks. One woman had her phone out.

Ben backed away, breathing hard, hand clutching his upper arm where I must’ve caught him in the scramble. A thin line of blood bloomed across his sleeve.

“Oh my God ,” he whined, voice rising. “You attacked me!”

“I didn’t— You—” I pointed at the fork. “That fell out of your jacket.”

“Are you serious?” he shouted. “You just grabbed me in the middle of a restaurant! Over a fork? ”

“I saw it! You had it!”

“You’re delusional,” Ben snapped. “You always do this—make everything into some twisted story in your head. You need help.”

The ma?tre d’ reached us, already doing damage control. “Is there a problem here, madam?”

I looked down.

At the fork.

It was not in his jacket. Not in my hand. Just lying there, under the table.

“No,” I said gloomily. “No problem.”

Ben turned to the ma?tre d’, clutching his arm like I’d hit him with a frying pan. “She assaulted me. In front of everyone. I want this documented. I’ll be filing a complaint—with the agency, with you, maybe even the authorities. ”

The ma?tre d’ sighed, visibly recalculating his life choices. “Sir, are you in need of medical attention or...perhaps a complimentary dessert?”

“I need justice! ” Ben shouted.

The ma?tre d’ turned to me, eyes wide. “Madam, for legal reasons, I must now ask if that fork was launched in self-defense.”

I planned for a bad date and maybe a bruised ego.

I got Woman Goes Feral Over Tableware in Midtown Restaurant .

Great. Now I was the unstable ex and the utensil vigilante.

So...progress?