Page 48 of Matchmaking On The Menu

My gaze drifts toward the camera sitting on the kitchen table. Toward the memory card inside. The photographs I haven’t looked at yet. Suddenly I know exactly why I’ve been avoiding them.

I should look.

But I don’t.

10

DANNICA

SMALL TOWN COLLECTIVELY DECIDES LOCAL WOMAN IS THEIR BUSINESS

By nine a.m., I am, much to my mortification, a public figure.

Not in a Jennifer-Lawrence-released-a-new-movie kind of way. No. More in an everyone-within-a-ten-mile-radius-knows-I-was-kissed-by-a-masked-stranger-and-has-thoughts-about-it kind of way.

I come back from the kitchen and set the coffee pot down before reaching for the specials board. Today’s special is Aunty Grace’s banana cream pie. It won the Harvest Festival pie competition for the third year running, which means she’s insufferable about it. Not that I blame her. The pie is legendary.

As soon as I step behind the counter, I feel it. That tiny hitch in conversation. A chair scraping halfway before stopping. Voices dipping, then bouncing back a little too loudly, like they’re trying to cover something that’s already obvious.

My name doesn’t get said, but I can feel the looks before I catch them. Little taps against my skin. Quick and curious. Not even trying that hard to be subtle. One lingers too long on my face. Another drops to my mouth.

Oh.

Oh no.

Heat floods up my neck so fast it’s honestly impressive. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the counter like it might save me. Maybe if I don’t look at them, they’ll forget I exist.

They won’t.

If anything, they seem increasingly committed to remembering.

The bell over the diner door doesn’t stop ringing as everyone comes in to gawk at me, like they might see or hear something no one else does. I feel like the bearded lady at a carnival.

Granted, this is a small town where not much happens, but surely something else came out of the festival. Someone must’ve fallen into the dunk tank. Gotten into a fight. Accidentally eaten twelve funnel cakes and required medical intervention. Something.

By the third chime in two seconds, I stop looking up altogether. By the fifth, I’m gripping the coffee pot so hard I might actually snap the handle. Ever since Mystery Man entered my life, it feels like I’m cursed by that damn bell.

“This is a nightmare,” I mutter, as I draw what I hope will look like a pie.

“It’s a headline,” Quadri corrects from next to me. “And not even a bad one.”

I focus very hard on the board in front of me as if it might evaporate if I don’t supervise it.

“How’s this one? Local woman kisses mystery man, regrets life choices immediately.”

I huff out a quiet breath, hoping that settles it. It doesn’t. It’s easier to make it sound ridiculous than admit I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About him. About the way he held me like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. I immediately give myself a mental shake. This is not helping.

“Catchy,” Shelly says, breezing past me with a tray. “But it needs more scandal.”

“It does not need more scandal.”

“Everything needs more scandal.”

I open my mouth to argue because she is objectively wrong, but the words stall in my throat when a familiar hum drifts from booth five.

“Mmhmm.”

My shoulders tighten automatically and I don’t even have to look. Mr. Davenport is sitting in a spot that is not his usual place, glaring at Tommy Stone like the man stole something sacred and not just his stool at the counter. Then his gaze flicks to me.