Page 51 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“A therapist is supposed to keep secrets.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to be the therapist. Just that people think I am.”

I press my lips together hard.

I will not indulge the two future journalists currently staring at me with matching expressions of determination. They use their love for me to extract information on a regular basis. Not today.

“So, was he your prince?” Naveah asks.

I press my fingers to my temples, wishing I could stop this conversation from progressing any further.

“Okay, first of all, he is not a prince.”

“A duke?” Naveah suggests.

“A knight?” Royal offers.

“Neither,” I say a little too quickly. “He’s a stranger. A random man who happened to be in the same place I was at the same time.”

If I keep it simple enough, basic enough, maybe it’ll start to feel that way.

“And kissed you,” Shelly adds, completely committed to this narrative.

My stomach immediately drops. This is not a conversation that should be happening in front of five-year-olds.

“Technically—”

I stop because there is absolutely no version of that sentence that makes it sound less than what it was. Unfortunately, my mouth still remembers it. Which is wildly unhelpful when the blush creeps up my neck. “It was on the mask,” I snap.

“Still counts,” Imani states.

The twins exchange a look.

“He sounds like a prince,” Royal decides.

“What did Mrs. Leverman say?” Naveah taps a finger against her cheek. “Oh yeah. She said he sounds like a runner.”

Fucking fat fritters in a fryer.

The worst part is Mrs. Leverman might not be wrong.

Relief slips in before I can stop it. I point at Naveah. “Thank you. Finally. A voice of reason.”

“She means he ran away,” Royal clarifies.

The relief doesn’t last. “I know what she meant,” I say flatly.

Sure, I am relieved nothing more came of the kiss, because I have obligations and decisions to make.

But also, he ran away.

By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted. Emotionally, socially, existentially, and possibly spiritually. My face hurts from fake smiling, and my brain feels like it’s been picked over and put back wrong.

“I need a drink,” Shelly announces, untying her apron. “And details.”

“Yes,” Quadri agrees. “Primarily details.”

Mary nods. “Details would be good.”