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“Are you sure?”
He’s frowning at my about-face, so I give him my best not-hungry smile. “Yep. The pizza appetizer is plenty for me.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.”
He motions for the waiter to come over, and we order our food. Then the waiter leaves, and it’s just the two of us at the semi-private corner table. We stare at each other, and I feel that electric tension again, growing and expanding until it engulfs us in a strange kind of bubble. We’re in a crowded restaurant, but it’s as though we’re completely alone. I’m cognizant of him to a degree that scares me; every movement of his hands, every breath that expands his chest—I feel it so completely it’s as if an invisible string joins us together. Desperate to break the spell, I say, “So, Marcus—”
“So, Emma—” he begins at the same time, and we both burst out laughing, the tension bubble popping like an overfilled balloon.
“You go first,” Marcus says, grinning, and I all but melt into a puddle on my seat. He has the best smile, all strong white teeth and sexy grooves in his lean cheeks. It softens his hard features and warms his cool blue eyes, taking him from intimidatingly good-looking to panty-wetting hot. It’s not an exaggeration, either, because I actually feel my underwear getting damp. If I had my vibrator right now, it would take me less than two minutes to come. Maybe three minutes, tops.
God, Emma, get your mind out of the gutter.
Fighting a blush that threatens to color my face again, I say, “I was just going to ask if you ever ended up connecting with Emmeline. You know, the woman you were supposed to meet that night?”
Marcus’s smile fades. “I did, yes.”
“Oh?” My chest constricts for some reason. “And what happened?”
He shrugs. “We ended up having dinner. How about you? Did you ever meet up with Mark?”
“No, I didn’t,” I say, the tightness in my chest intensifying as I recall Kendall’s warning. “I think he must’ve been upset by what happened, because he never responded to my apology email.”
“I see.” Marcus takes a sip of water. His gaze is inscrutable as he studies me over the rim of his glass. “Are you disappointed by that? Who was this Mark guy, anyway?”
“Just someone from a dating app,” I say. Marcus is clearly trying to keep the focus on me, but with Kendall’s words ringing in my ears, I’m not so easily deterred. “What about this Emmeline of yours?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. “Who was she, and how did your dinner go?”
“She was also from something like a dating app,” he says, leaning back in his chair. His face is expressionless, and that, combined with his lack of reply to my second question, makes me even more curious about the topic.
“What’s ‘something like a dating app?’” I ask, reaching for my own water glass. I was just joking with Kendall about drilling Marcus, but some instinct is telling me to pursue this.
“A matchmaker,” he says bluntly.
I choke on a sip of water. Coughing, I sputter out, “A what?”
“A matchmaker,” he repeats, his blue gaze chilly again. “It’s not that different from a dating site or app, just more personalized and exclusive.”
“Right.” I gulp down more water to hide my shock. I hadn’t really thought about why Marcus was supposed to meet a woman he didn’t know. I’d just sort of assumed he’d been set up on a blind date by a friend, or that he has a casual profile on a dating app, like I do. Lots of people do that these days; online dating is no longer just for losers. A matchmaker, however, is a different matter.
A matchmaker implies he wants something serious—and possibly quite particular.
“Are you, um…” Crap, how do I phrase it without freaking him out? “Are you looking to get married or something?”
“Of course.” His expression cools further. “Isn’t that the very definition of the service a matchmaker provides?”
“Well, yes…” I know I sound like an idiot, but I can’t help it. I’ve never known the male of the species to seek out a relationship with the goal of marriage. From what I’ve seen, if a guy proposes, it’s because he either wants to please his girlfriend, or he’s met the right person and realizes it’s the logical next step. I’m sure there are men who want marriage for the sake of marriage, but I’ve never come across such a creature personally. Even my super-clingy ex in college didn’t think much of the institution; he just wanted us to be together all the time. Of course, my experience is with guys in their teens and twenties. Marcus is thirty-five—a man in his prime, not a boy still trying to find himself.
Before I can come up with something clever to say, the waiter brings our appetizers. He places both the pizza and the calamari in the middle of the table, likely assuming we’re going to share them. Saliva pools in my mouth at the delicious smell. I wait impatiently until the waiter leaves, and then I grab a slice of the pizza, nearly burning my fingertips in the process.
