Page 131 of Matchmaking On The Menu

Traitor.

Peyton nods, relief flickering across her face, and steps back, giving me space again. And just like that, the moment shifts back into something lighter, something louder, filled with laughter and voices and people pressing a drink into my hand and pulling me into conversations I barely follow because I’m still trying to process all of it.

It’s wonderful. Messy and loud and full of so much love that I can barely hold it all in my body.

At some point, Luke insists on making a toast despite nobody asking him to. He stands so abruptly, Diane has to grab his arm to steady him.

“To newspapers,” he announces proudly, holding up what appears to be a chocolate milkshake. “And emotionally brave women.”

“That was surprisingly good,” Mary whispers.

Luke beams. “And to Diane,” he adds immediately, turning toward her with devastating sincerity, “who says I’m maturing.”

Diane smiles into her wine glass. “I said improving.”

“Even better.”

Honestly, I think Luke might already be planning a future where they own matching porch chairs.

Later, when we’re at Teddy’s door, I feel it in my bones. The exhaustion. The adrenaline. The overwhelming, unbelievable joy of it all.

“I did it,” I say, and it comes out softer than I expected.

“I know,” he says.

And then he pulls me into a kiss. It’s not urgent. It’s not about catching up or making up for lost time. It’s happy. Warm. Full of something that feels lighter than anything we’ve had before, like we’re not holding onto the moment so much as stepping into what comes next.

I laugh against his mouth, a little breathless, a little giddy, and he huffs out something that sounds suspiciously the same.

“You’re glowing,” he murmurs.

“I feel like I might actually float away,” I admit, unable to contain my smile.

Everything between us is easy, natural, the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to prove itself. It just exists, growing steadier with every touch, every laugh, every moment we share without overthinking it. There’s joy in it, real joy, the kind that bubbles up without warning, that makes everything feel brighter, lighter, possible.

“Stay,” he says, his hand settling at my waist, grounding me.

“Not going anywhere,” I reply, looking into his eyes, not wanting to break the connection between us.

And I mean it. Because for the first time I don’t feel like I have to chase anything. I’m already here. With him. In this life that suddenly feels like mine. He looks at me for another second like he’s trying to memorize me, and then he kisses me again. Deeper this time.

My hands slide into his hair automatically, and I laugh softly against his mouth when I nearly trip over my own feet as I back into his apartment.

“Oh my god,” I mutter. “That was almost deeply embarrassing.”

“You recovered beautifully.”

“I’m glowing with success tonight.”

“You are glowing,” he says again.

Heat blooms low in my stomach, because he’s looking at me like I’m beautiful, yes, but also like he’s proud of me. Like he sees every piece of me I spent years trying to downplay and somehow likes me more because of it. That does something dangerous to my emotional stability.

I kiss him before I can say anything stupid.

He makes a soft sound against my mouth, his hands settling at my waist. Everything between us feels easy tonight. Not careful. Not uncertain. Like we’ve finally stopped circling each other and started stepping into whatever this is.

My heart feels too big for my chest.