Page 83 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“Aww, man,” Luke says. “I worked so hard on that.”

Quadri comes to the front. “You guys can come in now.”

Something in me finally snaps. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just clean, sharp, done.

“Inside,” I say.

The word cuts through the chatter, the confusion, Luke mourning his mechanical masterpiece, Mary’s lingering “oops” energy, Mystery Guy’s barely contained readiness to throw another punch if necessary.

No one moves, so I take a step forward and point toward the diner door with an authority I did not know I possessed five minutes ago.

“Inside,” I repeat, slower this time. “All of you. I want answers. And I want them now!”

My gaze sweeps the group one by one.

Mystery Man thumbs in the general direction of the grocery store parking lot. “I should probably get the bike and go.”

“No,” I snap, then immediately regret it. He’s a victim in this, too. “I mean, please join us. And bring the bike. We need the evidence.”

He nods, and everyone else looks anywhere but at me. Then, like I’ve just activated some kind of deeply ingrained survival instinct, they start moving. Mary first, because guilt. Luke next because he knows he’s in trouble. Quadri gestures vaguely at the ginger-haired woman, who is still holding her coupon and now looks like she’s accidentally joined a field trip.

“You too,” I say, already turning toward the door. “If you’re here for food, you’re going to get a show first.”

She hesitates, then follows. I’ve just gone off like a shit beetle, so she probably isn’t taking any chances. I touch her shoulder as she passes me. “Your meal is on the house.”

She smiles gratefully and follows the line of troublemakers. I head to the back to grab my bike. Even though it betrayed me, it’s still mine. As I haul it into the back room, the broken chain gives one last pathetic scrape against the pavement.

It dawns on me that Mystery Man will have to drag two bikes over here, so I set the bike just inside the door and jog after him.

I fall into step next to him. “Hey, I figured you’d need a hand.”

He smiles. “Thanks.”

When we reach the broken bike—or should I say bikes—I stare down at them, hands on my hips. “Oh wow, yours are way more messed up than mine.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re supposed to attach two separate bikes to each other.”

I hold back a growl. Those guys have a lot of explaining to do. I bend and grab half of the bike as Mystery Man does the same.

“Hey, thanks for coming to my rescue back there.”

“No problem.”

We don’t say much else. I’m too busy trying to figure out exactly what got into my friends, and I’m sure he’s equally confused.

When we arrive back at the diner, I shove the door open with my hip and step inside, the familiar warmth of the diner wrapping around us as the last few stragglers filter out, still laughing, still completely unaware of the chaos that just unfolded outside. I lean my half of the bike against the counter and turn back to face the group, planting myself squarely in the middle of the floor. I cross my arms and lift my chin.

“We are going to start,” I say, my voice deceptively calm, “with someone explaining to me why I was just fake-mugged behind my own damn diner.”

There’s a pause. A breath.

“And I swear,” I add, narrowing my eyes slightly, “if the answer is for fun, I am flipping a table.”

A heavier silence settles over the room, tense and anticipatory and just a little bit terrified.

Good.

They should be.