Page 8 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)

After the rooftop party, Brad suggested we go somewhere quieter—just the two of us. Which was how all great second dates begin...and also most true-crime documentaries.

We ended up at a late-night restaurant on the edge of downtown—warm lighting, real candles, staff that didn’t hover. The kind of place that felt like it came with whispered conversations and clean silverware.

Brad ordered us a bottle of wine without asking, and I let him—mostly because the alternative was more decision-making, and I was fresh out.

“I’m glad we did this,” he said once we’d settled in. “That party was...interesting.”

“That’s one word,” I said.

“You seemed a little tense. Before I got there.”

I blinked. “I wasn’t tense.”

He smiled. “You were definitely tense.”

I took a sip of water. “Maybe I was just anticipating your dramatic entrance.”

“Mm. Or maybe you were hoping your matchmaker wouldn’t be checking me out too hard.”

I laughed—a little too loud. “You noticed that?”

“Hard not to.”

He was teasing. Light. But his gaze lingered a second too long, like he wanted to watch my reaction curl inward.

“It was nothing,” I said. “Nate’s just...Nate.”

“Still. That would be a dealbreaker for me. If someone I was seeing had...residual connections. ”

I nodded slowly. “It’s not like that.”

“Good.” He reached across the table and touched my hand. “Because I really don’t like competition.”

It was framed like a compliment. His smile was soft, even sweet.

Still, something in my chest moved sideways.

I pulled my hand back gently, tucked my hair behind my ear.

He shifted gears casually. “So, tell me something real. Family. Exes. Whatever you’re avoiding.”

I hesitated. Then gave him a trimmed, digestible version of the truth: divorced parents, a few heartbreaks, one that still left a bit of a scar.

He nodded like he’d been waiting for it. “You know what I hate?” he said. “People who get in the way of things. Friends, coworkers—whatever. If something’s right, it’s right. You don’t let outside noise ruin it.”

I blinked. “You mean...opinions?”

“I mean distractions. You and me—this feels right. Doesn’t it?”

My brain stalled for a second.

It did. Sort of. It had. At least in the curated cocktail party version of reality.

But here, now—the lights a little warmer, his voice a little lower—I wasn’t so sure.

“I think we’re getting to know each other,” I said.

He smiled. “I already know. Some people just fit.”

Another compliment. Another little shift in pressure.

Halfway through dinner, he made a joke about me “belonging to him now” if I kept making him laugh like that.

After dinner, he walked me to my door.

Like a gentleman.

Like a man from a dating simulator who’d selected the “chivalrous” route.

Like someone who already knew how the night was supposed to end.

I held my keys like a prop. We stood in front of my building, bathed in that vague glow of the streetlamp that always made everything feel one shade too cinematic.

He shifted a little closer.

Here we go.

Was I supposed to feel something?

Was there going to be a spark?

A swoop?

A sudden, undeniable pull that made me forget I had ever doubted this?

My stomach fluttered. But not in the good way—more like the pre-ulcer way.

He was leaning in. His eyes locked on mine, soft and steady.

Okay, Diana. This is fine. This is a kiss. Kisses are allowed. You’ve kissed people before. You’ve kissed bad people before and survived it. So just...be present. Be romantic. Be—

Our lips met.

It was...technically correct.

His mouth was cool. The pressure was gentle. His hand rested lightly on my waist like he was trying not to leave fingerprints.

It was fine.

So why did I feel like a robot performing a firmware update?

I pulled back slightly. Smiled. Too brightly .

“Thanks for dinner,” I said. “And, you know, the unexpectedly flawless wine pairing.”

He smiled. “Do you want to...?”

He didn’t finish the sentence, just looked toward my building.

I panicked.

Was that the Do you want me to come up look?

Or the Do you want to kiss again, but better this time look?

Was I supposed to want either?

“I’ve got an early morning,” I blurted. “Big work thing. Crazy project. Probably need to, you know, crash early. Recharge. Mentally reset. Like a plant.”

Like a plant.

I said it. Out loud.

He blinked. “Totally. Rest is important.”

We stood there in silence for another half-beat. Too short to be intimate. Too long to be casual.

“I’ll text you,” he said.

I nodded. “Cool. Texting is...great.”

He turned, walked off down the street. I watched until he disappeared around the corner.

Then I turned my key in the door, walked inside, and leaned back against the wall with a long, dramatic sigh.

That kiss had all the passion of a politely written email.

Maybe even one with an unsubscribe link at the bottom.