Page 114 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I carry on with my work, pulling out the requisition forms and settling into the familiar rhythm of numbers, stock levels, and things that make sense. Things that stay where you put them. Things that do not invite strangers to form opinions about your inner world.

I write, check, tally, repeat. Like I haven’t just distributed my thoughts across every table in the diner. Like at any moment someone isn’t going to open a menu and accidentally learn far more about me than they ever intended.

I would feel less exposed standing in the middle of town hall in beige granny panties. At least then I’d know exactly what people were looking at.

I pause, pen hovering over the form, my stomach doing a completely unnecessary flip.

Right. Focus. Tomatoes. Flour. Coffee beans. Normal things. Not feelings. Definitely not feelings.

I press the pen to paper again, grounding myself in the scratch of ink and the neat, predictable lines of the form. Because if I just keep working, if I just keep moving, maybe I can pretend this isn’t a big deal.

Even though it very clearly is.

I finish the last line on the requisition form and cap the pen like that somehow seals the moment. Tomatoes. Flour. Coffee beans. Dignity—currently out of stock.

The bell over the door jingles as I step out of the diner. I’m about to grab my bike when I see him.

Teddy is leaning against his car, one ankle crossed over the other, arms loose, head tipped slightly back. The last of the light catches along his jaw, the line of his throat, the way his shirt sits across his shoulders.

My steps falter for half a second before I recover and keep walking, because staring is not subtle.

He looks… edible.

He straightens when he sees me, that easy smile sliding into place like it belongs there. Like it’s only for me. My mouth goes bone-dry.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.”

I stop a step too close, then shift back half a step, then immediately regret that because now it looks like I don’t know how personal space works. Which, to be fair, I currently don’t.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, even though the answer feels obvious now that he’s standing in front of me looking like that.

“Picking you up,” he says.

I nod like this is completely normal and not something that just made my pulse spike.

“I was going to go home first,” I say, gesturing vaguely at myself. “Get changed.”

His gaze tracks slowly down my body, making me very aware of everything I’m wearing. The shirt, the jeans, the fact that I’ve been standing near a fryer for most of the day.

“Why?” he asks.

I blink at him, then look down at myself again, because—what?

“Because this is a date?” I say, like it should be obvious to anyone with functioning eyesight.

He looks at me again, slower this time. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing,” he says. “You always look beautiful.”

Oh. Well.

That was not the expected response.

My brain scrambles for something to deflect that. A joke. A comment about grease stains or the lingering scent of fries. Something that will put this back into safe territory. I come up with nothing because that’s a really lovely thing to hear, and for some reason, saying so feels far more dangerous than any joke.

“Right,” I say instead, which is deeply inadequate.

He laughs lightly, as if he knows my brain short-circuited. “Come on,” he says, pushing off the car and opening the passenger door.