Page 42 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I narrow my eyes at him. “Is this a personality experiment?”

“Maybe.”

His hand presses slightly at my waist, guiding me into a turn. I go with it because I’ve decided to trust this masked stranger with my balance, my personal space, and whatever tatters remain of my common sense. When I come back to him, I’m closer. Much closer.

Close enough to feel the warmth of him properly now. Close enough that the air between us feels thinner. Close enough that I catch the faint rise and fall of his chest, the subtle hitch in his breathing that makes my own breath stumble in response.

“You’re very calm about all of this,” I murmur.

“All of what?”

I gesture a little between us. “This. Stranger. Mask. Slow dancing like we’re in some kind of⁠—”

“Period drama?” he offers.

A surprised laugh slips out of me. “That was my line.”

“Was it?”

I look at him more carefully then.

The jester mask catches the light every time he moves, gold and white and just dramatic enough to make him feel more unreal instead of less. But beneath it, there’s something deliberate. Something controlled. Measured. Even now, even here, when the whole festival feels dipped in sugar and magic and unreality.

And yet, he’d hesitated before touching me. He’d looked down at our hands a second ago, like he needed the grounding of something tangible.

The music slows even more, softening into something almost embarrassingly romantic. It’s a melody composed for poor decisions and fairy tale logic. Around us, couples unconsciously draw closer. Bodies sway more than dance. The whole tent seems to exhale. His arm tightens just enough to keep me with him. Or maybe I move in first? I honestly couldn’t say.

All I know is that suddenly there’s hardly any space left between us, my hand is sliding a little higher on his shoulder, his fingers are warm at my side, and for one suspended, impossible moment everything else falls away.

No diner and orders. No bills or endless mental checklists or trying to hold a dozen things together with two hands, caffeine, and sheer force of will. No feeling like the walls are closing in by obligation, slowly, crushing my dreams bit by bit.

It’s just this moment with the music low around us and the atmosphere turning everything soft at the edges.

BREAKING NEWS: EVERYTHING GOES QUIET—LOCAL WOMAN UNSURE HOW TO PROCESS PEACE

Just him. And the deeply inconvenient way he’s looking at me like I’m not background noise or someone passing through his evening. Not a girl in a mask at a festival. It makes my chest ache in a way I decidedly do not care for.

“You’ve gone off into some deep thinking,” he murmurs.

I make a face. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“Well, I can help with that. Just stop.”

“That’s helpful. Truly groundbreaking advice. Have you thought of putting out a self-help book?”

“I’ll leave the writing to you.”

I stiffen, only a fraction as realization hits. This is the Mystery Man from the diner. Has to be.

I tip my head back slightly, trying to catch more than fragments beneath the mask. A mouth. A jawline. Something I can pin down and verify my suspicions.

“Who are you?” I ask.

The question comes out softer than I mean it to. Less teasing. More real.

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.

His gaze drops briefly, and when it lifts again, there’s less ease, more intent in his eyes. Like he’s standing on the edge of something and deciding whether to fall.