Page 39 of Matchmaking On The Menu

The sensible thing would probably be to laugh it off. Make a joke and pretend my pulse isn’t suddenly doing strange things. This is exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need right now. I already have a diner-sized decision hanging over my head and a future I can’t seem to make sense of. The last thing I should be doing is getting caught up in a masked stranger with good timing and inconveniently nice eyes.

A couple brushes past us, so close I can feel the movement of air along my arm, the woman’s dress grazing my wrist. Mystery Guy’s hand is still there, waiting patiently, and that feels more dangerous than if he’d pushed.

I should laugh or make a joke. Deflect like a normal, well-adjusted human being who isn’t currently trying to make a life-changing decision and therefore has no business getting distracted by a mysterious man in a mask. Instead, I put my hand in his. Once I’ve made the choice, it’s quick and decisive, because the truth is hesitation was never going to change my answer.

“Do you always ask like that?” I ask.

“Like what?”

The moment he speaks, everything clicks into place. How could I have missed it earlier? Jeez, I was so busy questioning him about taking my picture, I didn’t put two and two together. The voice, the rhythm of it. The low warmth in it that somehow manages to sound amused and sincere at the same time.

Oh my god.

Mystery Guy isn’t some mystery guy at all. He’s diner guy. The out-of-towner with the impossible smile, the inconveniently thoughtful questions, and the fifty-dollar tip that still has Mary convinced he’s secretly laundering money.

I stare at him, then narrow my eyes. “You know, most people give a girl their name before asking her to dance.”

The corner of his mouth twitches beneath the mask. “Most people aren’t attending a masked festival.”

“Ah.” I nod solemnly. “Right. Heaven forbid we ruin the mystery.”

“Exactly.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You’re very committed to the bit.”

“Maybe I like the mystery.”

“Maybe you’re avoiding the question.”

“Maybe that’s part of the mystery too.”

I shake my head. This is completely ridiculous. The worst part is that instead of irritating me, it only makes me more curious and slightly amused.

“So, what’s wrong with the way I asked?” His eyebrow lifts expectantly.

The corners of my mouth curve despite myself. “It’s like we’re in a period drama.”

A chuckle rushes from his lips and, oh boy, my ovaries just about explode.

“I tend to sound like that when I’m in over my head.”

I blink, then blink again. Did he just... “And are you?”

My heart pounds beneath my ribs. He glances down at our hands for a second, then back at me.

“Feels like it,” he admits.

There it is again. That ridiculous blinking thing I seem to do whenever he says something unexpected. My heart isn’t helping matters either, thudding hard enough to make me wonder if it’s trying to escape. Because seriously, what kind of man stands on the side of a dance floor in a jester mask and asks a stranger to dance like it actually matters? And what kind of man admits he’s in over his head?

This one, apparently.

The first thing I notice is that his hand is warm. The second is that his thumb shifts slightly against the back of my hand, the pressure changing just enough to make the contact feel intentional instead of incidental. Like he means it. Like he didn’t ask me because he got caught taking my picture.

Which is a surprisingly difficult thing to ignore.

I let him pull me in and then, because my self-preservation skills have abandoned me for the evening, I close the remaining distance myself. My free hand settles on his shoulder as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, even though I still don’t know this man’s name. The fabric of his shirt is soft beneath my palm, but the muscle underneath definitely isn’t. He has those broad, solid shoulders that make a person seem dependable for reasons I can’t quite explain.

Not that I’m putting any thought into that. Or the fact that I’m suddenly curious whether the rest of him is as sturdy. Being asked to dance doesn’t give me the right to start randomly groping the man, even if my brain is currently doing an impressive job of arguing otherwise.