Page 81 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I tighten my hold on the bike, my heart kicking hard against my ribs now, adrenaline flooding in just a second too late to be helpful but right on time to make everything feel like it’s under a spotlight.

My eyes flick to the distance between us, then to the back entrance of the diner, then back to… whatever this situation is.

“Look,” I try again, because some people freeze, some people fight. I, however, flap my gums. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I feel like we could all take a moment, maybe reassess some life choices⁠—”

He or she takes another step closer. Okay, this is not a negotiation situation.

My fingers curl tighter around the handlebars as my pulse spikes, every instinct suddenly screaming at me that this has gone from mildly bizarre to very, very bad.

He lunges. He because those broad shoulders are definitely not looking female.

“Hey—no—get away from me!”

The words rip out of me before I even fully decide to say them, my voice sharp enough to echo off the wall. My heart slams into overdrive, adrenaline hitting hard and fast, turning everything bright and electric. He grabs my bag, and I grip tighter.

Fight or flight? I think it’s time to choose fight. I drop the bike without thinking and yank my water canteen free in one quick motion. The metal is solid in my grip, familiar in a this-is-now-a-weapon kind of way.

“Back off!” I snap, already swinging. He doesn’t let go. The canteen connects with a solid thunk against his arm. Hard enough to sting, hard enough that he jerks back a step. He doesn’t release the purse, so I jolt forward, my teeth rattling.

“Oh.” I blink. “Okay, you’re strong.”

“Let go, little lady,” he growls again.

His hand closes around the second strap before I can react, and suddenly we’re tugging. Just full-on, ridiculous, completely uncoordinated tug-of-war over my purse.

“Are you serious right now?” I demand, yanking it back toward me. “You’re mugging me, and this is the technique?”

He pulls again, harder this time, the force dragging me another step forward.

“Let. Go.”

“No,” I shoot back, digging my heels in. “You let go.”

It’s not even about the purse anymore, but the principle. And possibly spite. Definitely spite. Because damn it, I nearly fell off my bike for the second time in a month, and now I’m about to get mugged? Over my dead body.

We grapple, the strap stretched tight between us, his grip strong but not decisive. Not the quick grab-and-run I was expecting. It’s messy. Awkward. Almost like…

Wait.

I squint at him, something in my brain finally clicking through the chaos. The mask. That is a very specific little old lady. Really specific.

Recognition flickers.

“Luke?”

The name slips out before I can stop it. He freezes. In that split second of hesitation, someone comes out of nowhere, a blur of movement from the side, and hits Luke straight across the face. The impact lands with a loud, echoing crack. His head snaps to the side, his grip loosening instantly as he stumbles back. The purse jerks free in my hands, and I stagger with the sudden release. I blink furiously, because that escalated fast.

Luke goes down hard. One second he’s there, looming and tugging on my purse, the next he’s flat on his back with someone on top of him. It takes my brain a second to catch up. Mystery Man. Mystery Man is on top of Luke.

“Whoa… hey…”

Everything starts happening at once.

“Stop! Stop! It’s a prank!” Mary bursts out from behind Grandma’s car like she’s been waiting for her cue in the worst play ever written, her hands flapping wildly as she runs toward us.

“A prank!” she repeats, slightly out of breath. “It’s just a prank!”

Luke, still on the ground, looking significantly less intimidating and significantly more like a man who just got his ass handed to him by a fist, throws his hands up.