Page 115 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“I need to lock up my bike.”

He walks over to us… I mean me—me and my bike—and swoops it up. “Okay if it just sits inside until morning?”

His biceps shift under his fitted sweater, and I forget that he asked a question and expects an answer.

He smirks like he knows exactly what’s happening. Which is fair, because it’s pretty obvious.

“Uh… yeah…”

I fumble with the keys, though given that I’ve lost all ability to behave like a fully functional adult, I think I’m doing remarkably well. He rests the bike against the wall, then I lock up and get in his Jeep before I can overthink it.

The interior is warm, and the clean, woodsy scent of him wraps around me almost immediately. He closes the door and rounds the front, and I find myself watching without meaning to. The way he moves, easy and unhurried, like he has nowhere else he’d rather be. Which still surprises me a little, considering he comes from LA. Isn’t life there rushed?

He gets in, and the space suddenly feels smaller. Or maybe it’s just that he’s closer now.

I shift slightly in my seat, aware of the warmth coming off him—or at least I think I am. It could be the car. It could be me. It could be the fact that my body has decided this is a moment worth reacting to.

He starts the engine, one hand on the wheel. The other brushes mine as he reaches for the gear shift. It’s barely a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to send a small, sharp spark up my arm. I go very still as we make eye contact.

For a second, something lingers between us. A warmth that’s quiet and charged. I look away first, folding my hands in my lap like that will somehow make me less aware of him.

It doesn’t.

“Ready?” he asks when he turns off the engine.

“Of course,” I say, like I haven’t just spent the entire car ride acutely aware of his elbow existing.

He comes around to my side and opens the door. I step out, smoothing my hands down my pants. The rate at which I’ve been sweating makes me think I might need to seek professional help.

We head inside, and the second I step through the door, I stop.

The dining room table has been set, and it’s immediately clear this is not a “threw something together and hoped for the best” situation. He put effort into this.

A clean tablecloth stretches across the surface, smoothed out like he took a moment to make sure it didn’t sit weird in the middle. Two place settings face each other, but nothing overly formal. Plates centered, cutlery lined up in a way that suggests he either knows what he’s doing or committed very confidently to a guess. Candles sit between them at different heights, flames flickering softly and catching in the glassware, making the room feel cozier.

A bottle of wine sits open, already breathing, two glasses set close enough that reaching for one means inevitably brushing the other. A cloth napkin rests at each place, folded simply, to complete the aesthetic. I notice one fork is maybe a fraction out of line. Or I imagine it is. Hard to tell if that’s real or if I’m just looking for something to prove this wasn’t executed by a professional.

I step closer, my fingers brushing the edge of the table, grounding myself, because I’m feeling a little nervous.

“Oh,” I say. That is apparently all I have.

He watches me take it in, one hand rubbing lightly at the back of his neck. “I hope it’s okay.”

I let out a breath. “It’s more than okay. It’s… really nice.”

Understatement of the year.

The way he’s looking at me makes my mouth go dry.

He steps closer and gestures toward my coat. “May I?”

I nod, turning slightly as he slides it off my shoulders. His fingers brush my skin as he does, and my body reacts with a faint shiver I hope he doesn’t notice. He hangs my coat, then turns back.

“Wine?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. “Wine is good.”

Smiling, he pours the wine and hands me a glass. Our fingers brush as I take it, another electric spark shooting up my arm. I take a sip, more for something to do than anything else.