“Some folks call that prompt.” I shrug. “Wanted a good seat.”
She softens, a quick, almost-smile, and uncaps her pen. “Let’s start.”
I clink my knuckle on the Formica and say, “No small talk?”
She gives me a look. “We can, but you’re paying by the hour.”
I fake a dramatic sigh. “Brutal.”
She taps the tablet. “Okay. You said last night you have a few friends who might need matchmaking. But let’s focus on you first.”
Her face is expressionless and attentive, the measured patience therapists wear. My jaw tightens, so I cross my arms and lean back, feigning indifference.
She says, “I take everything in strict confidence. All details are private, and I can tailor the intake as casual or formal as you like. Some people want a deep dive, some just want a few dates and no commitment.”
I raise one finger. “No commitment, not yet.”
She doesn’t smile at the joke, just writes it down.
There’s careful math to these questions. She wants to know where I grew up, what I do “for fun,” and what traits I respect most in a partner. I tell her I run cattle, herd sheep, and I like old movies and fixing things that don’t need fixing. I say I need someone who is “good with their hands.” She raises her eyebrow.For the next question, I say, “I mean like, woodworking, or sewing, or gardening,” and she writes that down verbatim.
Cotton’s mom comes by with the mugs, setting them down with the particular care of someone who owns the place. She’s got the same wide-set eyes as her son. She looks at Hannah a long beat before she says, “You’re the matchmaker.” Not a question. She sets down the half-and-half and taps the table once. “I need your card. That boy of mine’s thirty-four years old and the most eligible bachelor in Sagebrush County, which is a tragedy.” Hannah grabs a card from her bag with a smile that’s all professionalism, and Cotton’s mom tucks it into her apron without looking at it, like it’s already done.
She returns to her questions. “What sort of relationship history do you have? Serious? Casual?”
I keep it light: “Mostly casual and a little serious, in small doses.”
She deftly spins her tablet around with a brisk flick of her fingers, navigating screens swiftly. “Any dealbreakers?”
“I don’t like smokers, or people who correct my grammar,” I say.
She hums and types. “That’s better than most. Some folks ask for body type, height, and an exact resume.” She glances over her screen. “Anything like that?”
I think about it. “No vegetarians. Unless it’s for medical reasons. Or if they can cook for themselves.”
“Noted,” she says.
I taste the coffee. She’s too polite to say it, but I can tell she thinks I’m not invested. Maybe I’m not. I just wanted to keep her here a while longer—get dinner, or at least another reason to seeher. But now she drills into dealbreakers, fingers flying on the tablet, and I realize I haven’t really thought this through.
But now it’s just us, the smell of her coffee, and the particular way she tucks her chin when she’s thinking.
She finishes the first page. “Okay. This is the important one: What qualities are you actually looking for, Rhett? Not just the surface stuff. This will determine so much.”
She leans in, tone changing. I feel the heat crackle up in my ears. The answer is right in front of me, pen-tapping, blue-eyed, impossible not to notice, but I’m not about to say that out loud. She’d scribble it down and move on, like I was just a variable in a spreadsheet.
I look at the mug, then back to her. “Warmth. I don’t mean always-smiling, but someone who can put people at ease. Somebody who’s grounded and honest even when it’s awkward. Has a sharp sense of what’s right and what’s just for show. Not afraid to try new things, but isn’t restless—has her shit together.” I gesture toward the tablet, half-laughing. “Somebody who knows what they want and can ask for it.”
She types all of this and doesn’t react, not even a blink at the pretty obvious compliment in the middle.
She just asks, “Age range?”
“Twenty-five to thirty-five, I guess.”
She writes that. “Kids someday?”
“Not against it,” I say.
She never says anything personal about herself. That’s the trick of her job—make it about the other person, never show your own hand.
