Page 65 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“Still better than stress eating.”

Last week, I ate an entire box of ice creams because my conditioner order was delayed. Do you have any idea what happens to frizzy, red hair without the right products? Exactly.

I grab my keys and jacket and bolt before I start telling Herman about my man woes. I shake my head. “You don’t have man woes, Shelly. You learned your lesson the hard way.”

The bell above the diner door jingles as I step inside.

It’s funny, I barely notice it when I’m working, but now it hits me right in the chest.

Home.

I spot Mrs. Chester, Dannica’s mom, filling ketchup bottles as soon as I walk in.

“Hey, Mrs. C,” I call. “How’s business?”

“Great, honey,” she says, looking up. “You’re not on shift until tomorrow.”

“Oh, I know,” I say, already moving. “I just need to make something real quick.”

She smiles knowingly. “Forgot to buy groceries again?”

I laugh, probably a little too fast, a little too guilty. “Wow. You got me.” I pat my stomach. “Starving over here.”

She shakes her head, amused. “For the most organized girl I know, you really do have a talent for forgetting the important things.”

Grinning, I slip through the kitchen doors before she can ask any follow-up questions.

The kitchen is quiet, thank God. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Josh behind the fryer. If Llewellen were here, I’d be answering questions until next week.

“Hey, Josh. Just making a quick snack.”

He grunts to acknowledge that he heard me. I grab an apron and get to work.

Country fried steak—double fried. Extra mash. Extra gravy. A side of broccoli that has absolutely no business being called a vegetable anymore with the amount of butter I’m about to add.

Perfect.

I pack it up carefully, sealing the container like it’s precious cargo. It is. If this doesn’t work, nothing will. I grab the bag, ditch the apron, and head straight for the print/custom frame/office/wire transfer/money order/custom pet tag store.

The bell jingles as I step into the store.

The owner looks up from behind the counter, glasses halfway down his nose. “Shelly.”

“Hi Paul!” I chirp, setting the insulated bag down like I’m not about to change the trajectory of his business decisions.

We exchange about three seconds of polite small talk before I lean against the counter.

“So… how’s business on Sundays?”

He blows out a breath.

Oh, this is going to be easy.

“Slow,” he says. “Real slow. I’ve actually been thinking of just closing on Sundays altogether.”

I gasp loudly, possibly a touch dramatically. “No.”

He blinks at me.