Page 40 of Matchmaking On The Menu

Let me tell you something, his scent doesn’t help either. The faint smell of cedar and something clean envelops me. Not soap exactly, just clean. It makes me want to lean in and breathe a little deeper, partly because it’s a welcome break from the sweet, sugary haze hanging over the festival, but mostly because it feels weirdly familiar. Safe. Like a warm hug from an old friend. Probably a ridiculous thing to think about a man whose face I can’t even see, but that’s a problem for Future Dannica. Present Dannica is apparently too busy enjoying it to care.

His other hand settles at my waist, carefully, almost hesitantly, not assuming permission but giving me the opportunity to step back and change my mind. I don’t. In fact, before I can overthink what that says about me, I find myself stepping closer instead.

We fall into an easy rhythm. Nothing complicated. Just a shift of weight, a step, another step. My body follows without much effort, which surprises me considering I have all the grace of a newborn giraffe. But he moves like getting it perfect isn’t the point. Like the dance itself doesn’t matter nearly as much as the person he’s dancing with. Something about that settles me.

Usually, I’m thinking about how I look, or if I’m doing something embarrassing, whether people are watching, or if I’m somehow managing to make a simple situation weird. But right now, none of that seems particularly important. His hand stays warm against my waist as the music hums around us, and for once my brain isn’t sprinting three miles ahead of the moment. It’s just... here.

“First festival,” I say after a moment, my voice quieter now, closer than I intended.

“Yeah.”

“And this is your strategy?”

“Accidentally photograph someone and then ask them to dance?”

“Yeah.”

“And what if I said it was?”

I chuckle, the sound slipping out with more ease than it should. “I’d say I’m impressed.”

We fall into a rhythm after that. Not silence, just less talking. It’s a kind of quiet that doesn’t feel like something’s missing. The kind that fills what is.

“So,” I say again, because clearly I’ve committed to talking my way through whatever this is, “do you always go around photographing unsuspecting women and then asking them to dance, or am I just tonight’s special?”

“Exception,” he says.

No teasing, no hesitation. Just one word dropped between us like it means something.

“Wow, I feel so special,” I say, aiming for light and landing somewhere just to the left of it.

“You should.”

Well. That’s not fair. There’s something in his voice when he says it. Something low and quiet and entirely too certain for a man I barely know. My journalistic brain, which has chosen this exact moment to clock back in, perks up immediately.

“Since you took my picture and won’t give me your name, I think you should give me something. What’s your story? Are you on vacation? Having a midlife crisis? Running from the law, maybe?”

I sound as bad as Mary right now.

“None of those are mutually exclusive.”

A full laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and his hand tightens slightly at my waist as if the sound catches him off guard too.

“I knew it,” I say. “There’s a story here.”

“There usually is.”

“That camera of yours looks expensive. So, I’d guess this is less creepy stalker and more a career.” I look pointedly at his camera still slung over his shoulder. Somehow it hasn’t made a nuisance of itself. I guess I’ve been too wrapped up in whatever this is to notice.

When I meet his gaze again, he looks troubled. As if what I just said is both the truth and not a compliment.

“It used to be,” he says.

I decide to see if he’ll ’fess up to being the diner guy.

“Well,” I say lightly, because apparently I’ve made it my life’s mission to poke things I don’t fully understand, “you picked a good night for it. Everyone’s a character tonight.”

“They always are,” he says. “Most people just don’t notice.”