Page 18 of Matchmaking On The Menu

My mind drifts to Mom and Grandma’s… proposal. Proposal might be generous. Hostage negotiation feels more accurate. The worst part? Every packed table feels like another reason to stay. And the terrifying part is that I’m not sure whether that makes me feel relieved or trapped. I slam the register drawer closed and look up to find Shelly, Quadri, and Mary lined up on the other side of the pass, arms folded, faces expectant.

“Why are you all staring at me like I’m a Netflix special?”

“We’re waiting for the episode to drop,” Quadri says.

“Season one,” Mary adds. “Mysterious Stranger.”

“Spill.” Shelly points at me. “We need the tea.”

Quadri leans a hip on the counter. “You and Tall, Dark, and Rugged were practically sharing oxygen.”

If I get through this without rolling my eyes, I’m rewarding myself with a chocolate donut.

“I was serving him,” I say. “It’s called hospitality.”

“Uh-huh.” Mary starts unbraiding her hair, her attention fully focused on me. “What’s his name?”

“Need I remind you, you could’ve taken the table,” I point out. “But you suddenly developed stage fright.”

“You want good reviews, don’t you?” she shoots back. “I would’ve spilled coffee all over him.”

“Focus,” Shelly says, leaning in. “What is his name?”

“Actually…” I glance between them. “I don’t know.”

Three heads tilt in perfect unison.

“He didn’t say.”

A slow, collective inhale follows before Mary whispers. “Suspicious.”

“Or,” I counter, “he’s just passing through and doesn’t feel like handing out personal information.”

Imagine that. Boundaries.

Mary shakes her head. “What if he’s on the run?”

“He’s not on the run. People come to small towns to reset, or hide from an ex, or to find themselves.” I don’t add that some people stay because they never figured out how to leave. Or never tried to leave.

“Or because they escaped prison,” Shelly says. “He probably hasn’t had sex in years. Think about the tension.”

“That’s it,” Quadri mutters. “You’re banned from watching crime shows.”

“Fine. If he’s not a fugitive,” Shelly says, folding her arms, “what does he do?”

I roll my eyes. Goodbye, donut, we had a good run. “I don’t know.”

“See?” Mary throws up her hands. “Ex-con.”

“Good thing you’re not actually in journalism,” I say.

“Excuse me?” Mary straightens. “These are the questions you should be asking.”

This is getting ridiculous. I can’t help the headline that pops into my head.

SMALL-TOWN STAFF CONVINCE THEMSELVES STRANGER IS ESCAPED CONVICT.

“All right,” Shelly continues, “why is he here?”