Page 60 of Matchmaking On The Menu

The drive back gives me too much time to think. Waiting at the apartment made no sense. I’ve been known to hole up in my own place for days when I’m not on shift. He could be doing exactly the same thing, and I’d be parked outside indefinitely like a…

Like Beverly.

Absolutely not.

There has to be a better way. Something that doesn’t rely on chance. Something controlled.

I pass Mrs. Everett’s Pastry Shop and slow as a sign in the window catches my eye.

Buy one, get one free.

I look at it for a second longer than necessary. Then it settles.

Exactly what I’m going to do.

By the time I get home, the plan is already forming, each piece slotting into place. I grab a diet soda from the fridge—the cold bites straight into the molar Dr. Greene said I brush too hard, which is frankly insane—and sit down at my computer.

It doesn’t take long. It never does when I know exactly what I’m doing.

Clean layout. Clear messaging. Just enough incentive without feeling excessive.

A coupon for a free meal at the diner. Sunday evening. And if he’s anywhere near this town, he’ll see it.

The apartment building is just as quiet when I return. No movement. No change. Good.

I move quickly, placing a coupon in each mailbox—efficient, no wasted motion. In, out, done. Five apartments. Five mailboxes. But the silence suggests only one occupant, if that.

If Beverly crossed paths with him around here, he’ll come back.

My gaze lingers on the upstairs windows a second too long before I pull it away. I don’t dawdle. If I do, I might start drawing conclusions I’m not ready to deal with, and assumptions are inefficient. My father was very clear about that. He was rarely wrong—or rarely admitted he was wrong, rather.

I don’t linger on that, either.

By the time I get home, I’m satisfied. If he’s interested, he’ll come. If he’s not, nothing is lost. Either way, the outcome will be clear.

Clean. Definitive.

Exactly how I prefer things.

13

SHELLY

OPERATION TANDEM BIKE

I step out of my car, armed with a steaming takeaway cup and an outfit designed to kill. I ordered a pair of leather pants and a pink leopard-print blouse online nearly a month ago, and they finally arrived yesterday.

Worth. The. Wait.

I’m not going to lie—I feel damn cute in it. And feeling cute equals confidence when I’m not sure if this plan is going to work.

As always, Luke is elbow-deep in the engine of someone’s car, his back to me, grunge-pop music blaring through the speakers so he doesn’t hear me come in. Which, of course, gives me the opportunity to compose myself before the great manipulation of 2026.

The song ends, and my three-inch boots clack against the concrete floor, alerting Luke to my presence. He turns and grins.

“Hey, Shelly. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

He grabs a rag from the back pocket of his blue jeans and wipes his hands. There’s a smear of grease under his left eye like war paint, and it gives me the perfect opportunity to initiate Operation: Get Mystery Man and Dannica on a Tandem Bike So They Can Fall in Love.