Page 89 of Matchmaking On The Menu

He raises one eyebrow this time. Just one. And then it hits me.

Oh no.

Oh no.

If there was a nearby cliff, I would absolutely consider it.

“I prefer punishments to be doled out on the third date,” he says, biting his lip to hide his laugh.

Oh God, my stomach is doing that stupid flipping thing again.

I spin on my heel. “Okie dokie, date over.”

I make it three steps, three very committed, dignified steps, before his hand gently wraps around my bicep. “Dannica, I’m⁠—”

I turn back, already grinning. “Gotcha.”

Relief blooms on his face so fast, it almost makes me laugh again.

“Damn,” he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “I thought I really fucked up there.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll dig your grave by the end of the day.”

He tilts his head slightly, a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Wanna put a bet on that?”

I throw both hands up. “Oh no. No more bets.”

He chuckles, and the sound swirls somewhere low, warm, and entirely inappropriate for a public hiking trail.

“That’s fair,” he says.

Focus, Dannica. You can do this. Start with words and normal conversation. “So…” I reach into my bag, pulling out my hiking sticks with what I hope is confidence and not desperation, “you didn’t answer the question. How much hiking do you do?”

His eyes widen, and he turns on his heel. “Date over.”

I laugh, the tension in my chest uncoiling. “I take it not that much.”

“Not enough to carry hiking sticks in a backpack,” he says, turning back to me and shaking his head. “You don’t do anything in small measures, do you?”

“It’s not worth doing if it’s not done right.”

The words come automatically—Grandma’s voice in my head, steady and certain—but as soon as I say them, there’s an uncomfortable twist in my chest. Lately, that hasn’t exactly been true. Outside the diner, I’ve been… coasting. Starting things, letting them sit unfinished, letting myself sit unfinished.

And maybe that’s the part I hate most. Not the work itself. I love the diner. I love Grandma and Mom, the regulars and the way this town wraps around people whether they want it to or not. But lately, whenever someone mentions me taking over one day, my chest clenches before I can stop it, the walls quietly moving inward while everyone else calls it home.

But leaving feels selfish. It would mean leaving Grandma and Mom, my friends, the diner, the people who depend on me. The truth is, it’s easier to stay and tell myself I’ll go someday than to actually pack up my life and find out whether I can succeed at the dream I’ve had since I could formulate a story. Because what if I can’t? What if I leave this place, chase the dream I’ve held on to for years, and discover I was never good enough to catch it in the first place?

And the worst part? I don’t know what’s scarier anymore: staying here forever or leaving and finding out I’ve been wrong about myself all along. The thought presses in heavier than it should. I shake it off before it can settle, shifting the moment back where it belongs.

“Okay,” I say, holding out the sticks. “Here. Take these.”

He eyes them with distaste.

“You can tap out whenever you need to,” I add sweetly.

“I just want to know why you think I need these and you don’t.” But he takes them anyway.

“Because you said you haven’t done this a lot.”