Page 29 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“I stand by that,” I mutter, even as my fingers smooth over the skirt again. It does feel good. Which is annoying.

Shelly grins into her drink. “And yet, here you are. Not complaining. Not hiding. Suspicious behavior, honestly.”

“I am absolutely complaining,” I say. “Internally. With great intensity.”

Quadri hums. “We’ll give it another five minutes.”

“That’s generous of you.”

Shelly leans into me, stage-whispering, “If you start having fun, just blink twice and we’ll pretend we didn’t see it.”

I snort before I can stop myself. Unfortunately, that proves their point.

Quadri’s mouth twitches. “There it is.”

“Don’t,” I warn, already feeling the shift—that subtle, dangerous loosening of something I usually keep on a very tight leash.

“Too late,” Shelly says, delighted. “You’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am tolerating the situation,” I correct.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Give it time,” Quadri says calmly, like she’s watching a science experiment unfold in real time.

I open my mouth to argue, but then someone nearby lets out a loud, unrestrained laugh. The music swells, the lights catch on the rhinestones of my mask, and for a second, I forget to be annoyed.

“I look like I died beautifully in a snowstorm.” I’m lying, obviously, but I’ve got to give them something or they’ll get suspicious.

Shelly beams like I’ve just validated her entire life. “Exactly the vibe we were going for.”

I glance between them, still not entirely convinced this didn’t all come together a little too easily. “Where did you even get all this stuff?”

They don’t hesitate.

“Drama club,” they say in unison.

Mary giggles beside us, her red cloak swishing around her knees, wolf ears perched neatly in her hair. The half-mask gives her this strange, storybook edge, like Little Red took one look at the wolf and decided she’d be the problem instead.

“You look nice,” she says softly.

I blink at her, caught off guard by how sincere she sounds. “You’re the only one I trust right now.”

“Rude,” Shelly says, linking her arm through mine. “Come on. We’re starting with games.”

We start at the ring toss booth—an optimistic choice given my general lack of coordination and the fact that anything requiring aim and follow-through has historically betrayed me.

The guy dressed as a bear hands me a ring. I crouch slightly, narrowing my focus on one of the bottles like this is a high-stakes moment and not, in fact, a game I will absolutely lose.

Okay. This is it.

I toss.

It doesn’t just miss, it commits to missing, sailing wide and landing somewhere near the candy floss stand like it had somewhere better to be.

A small girl dressed as a dalmatian trots over to retrieve it, her ears flopping slightly as she moves, and hands it back to me with a grin that reveals a very enthusiastic lack of front teeth.