Page 75 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I can’t lie anymore. “Don’t hate me.”

“Mary,” he says. “You once convinced me frogs could predict storms. I think our friendship survived permanent damage years ago.” The words settle warmly in my chest. There’s something comforting about knowing someone has been firmly in your corner for years without you ever having to question it. “All right. Show me what you’ve got.”

By the time I get home, I have a plan.

I would feel a lot better if I knew how to get him there, though.

I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know where he lives, where he goes. I don’t even know his name. It makes it difficult to position him anywhere, let alone at the exact right place at the exact right time.

I pace my room, arms folded tightly across my chest, trying to think it through without spiraling. There has to be something. Some way to make it look natural. Accidental. Because if it looks staged, the whole thing falls apart.

And if he doesn’t show up, then it’s a bust.

My phone pings.

I stop mid-step, glancing down at it more out of reflex than anything else, and frown slightly when I see it’s an email from the diner.

I open it, expecting something about shifts or stock or someone needing cover, but instead it’s a random promotional thing to draw in customers during the slower afternoon hours.

Happy hour.

I stare at the words for a second.

Then a second longer.

Happy hour.

Hmmm, that’s not a bad idea.

Before I can overthink it, I’m moving, dropping onto my chair and pulling my laptop closer. I can’t control where he is, but I can control where people go. And if people go there, there’s a chance he will too.

I open a blank design and start typing.

Happy Hour.

Sunday. 3–5 PM.

Boudica Springs Diner.

Something no one would question and everyone would see.

A small smile pulls at my mouth as I adjust the spacing, tweak the font, add just enough detail to make it look like we’ve always done this, like it’s always been a thing.

There, that’ll work. It has to. I grab my bag and head out before I can second-guess it, the idea settling more firmly into place with every step. The print shop is quiet when I walk in, the bell above the door chiming softly as I push it open.

The owner looks up, offering me a pleasant smile around a mouthful of food. He’s halfway through what looks suspiciously like chicken fried steak from the diner, grease staining the paper it’s wrapped in.

Huh.

What a funny coinkydink.

“Afternoon,” he says, words slightly muffled as he gestures for me to come in.

“Hi,” I reply, handing over the file once I’ve pulled it up. “I just need a few of these printed.”

“No problem.”

He finishes the last bite while the printer hums to life, completely unbothered, and a few minutes later he hands them over, still warm from the machine.