Page 9 of Big Girl Panties

I winced. "Okay, that's actually not funny."

"It's a little funny." Matt leaned forward, genuinely interested. "What about you? What keeps Brooke busy?"

"I run a little café downtown," I said. "So while you're out there getting your face smashed in front of thousands of screaming fans, I'm asking Mrs. Henderson if she wants her usual. We both risk our lives, just in different ways."

"Mrs. Henderson sounds dangerous."

"You have no idea. She once made me remake her latte three times because it wasn't frothy enough. I'm pretty sure she could take you in a fight."

"I don't know, I'm pretty tough."

"Have you ever faced down a seventy-year-old woman who's been denied her proper foam-to-coffee ratio? Because that's real fear, Matt. That's when you know you're truly alive."

"Sounds pretty exciting to me," Matt grinned. "I'd love to see it sometime."

"Yeah, for sure." I thought he meant it until he didn't ask me the name of my café, but to be fair, there was still a lot of time left for him to ask.

I mentally scolded myself.

Do not get your hopes up, Brooke.

Because men who looked like Matt didn't date girls who looked like me. It was all the liquor sloshing around my stomach, filling my veins, and rushing to my brain that made me believe there was a possibility.

We spent the next hour talking, joking, and laughing. Before I knew it, his plate was cleared, my cup was empty, and the restaurant had emptied around us.

Matt glanced at his watch, eyebrows raising. "Wow, is that really the time? I can't remember the last time I was out this late without it involving a wrestling ring."

I stifled a yawn. "Yeah, I should probably head home. Early start tomorrow for the breakfast rush."

He reached for his wallet. "Let me take care of this and walk you to your car."

"Oh, I live nearby." I gestured vaguely. "I usually just walk."

Matt frowned slightly. "At this hour?" I nodded. "I'd feel better if I could walk with you. If that's okay?"

I hesitated, torn between my independent streak and the warmth in his eyes. "You really don't have to…"

"Brooke," he said softly, "It's 2:30 A.M., so humor me, please, and let me walk with you."

"Okay. I'd like that."

The sidewalk stretched ahead of us, each pool of streetlight marking another block closer to goodbye. My mind raced through conversation starters; ask about his next match, mention the weather, anything to keep him talking. But every topic felt forced, desperate.

As we approached my building, I slowed my steps involuntarily, trying to stretch out these last few moments with him. I knew I should just ask him for his number, but all the new insecurities I'd developed left me desperately scared of rejection.

"This is me." The words came out softer than intended. I gestured vaguely toward the building beside us, my home suddenly feeling like an unwelcome intruder. "Thank you for everything."

Matt turned to face me fully, closing the distance between us with a single step. The world narrowed to this moment, this space. I could smell his cologne. My heart thundered in my chest, each beat a seismic event.

"I had a good time tonight." His voice was low and rich.

I swallowed hard, trying to figure out if the intensity in his gaze was real or just a trick of the dim streetlight. Or perhaps a creation of my imagination. "Me too," I managed.

His dark eyes locked with mine, and time seemed to slow. My stomach fluttered, a swarm of butterflies taking flight. This feeling, this moment, had nothing to do with hunger. At least, not for food.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later."

His gaze dropped, and he shifted his weight.