Page 49 of Matchmaking On The Menu

Ah. There it is.

He folds his hands over his stomach, his expression settling into something far too expectant, like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning. And not because of the seat.

I narrow my eyes as I approach, already bracing myself. Not for a complaint, but for a myriad of questions.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“Mmhmm,” he repeats, which in his language translates roughly to I absolutely will. “You got yourself a beau, Dannica?” he asks, his dentures firmly in place today, unfortunately.

I set his mug down with perhaps a touch more force than necessary. “I liked you better when you lost your teeth.”

He grins. “Made it harder to ask the important questions.”

“I didn’t get a beau,” I say, reaching for the sugar jar even though he doesn’t take sugar. “I got ambushed by a man with a camera and poor decision-making skills.”

It’s easier to say it like that. Easier than explaining why it didn’t feel like an ambush at all.

“Mmhmm,” he says again, entirely unconvinced.

“Traitor,” I mutter, topping up his coffee anyway. I’m still capable of customer service even if I’m being socially eviscerated.

Unfortunately, Mr. Davenport isn’t the only one with opinions.

Every table seems to have something to say, and every version of the story gets a little more dramatic the further it travels. By the time I make it back behind the counter, I’m reasonably certain half the town thinks I’ve either met my soulmate or joined a traveling circus.

Imani is already perched on one of the bar stools like she owns the place—which, to be fair, she kind of does in spirit.

“Girl,” she says, pointing at me like I’ve personally offended her, “you need to get in my chair immediately.”

“What for?” I touch my hair, suddenly aware of the way it’s gone darker with the season. I thought it looked okay.

“To recreate the masterpiece your hair was in last night. I saw photos.” She fingers a strand. “Who did it, by the way?”

As if summoned, Shelly pops up beside me. “That would be me.”

Imani gasps. “You did that?”

Shelly immediately puffs up with pride. “I did.”

“Okay, no, because that was art,” Imani says, jumping off her seat and rounding the counter. “We’re recreating it. Immediately.”

Her hand closes around my wrist before I can step back and I stumble forward, catching myself on the edge of the counter.

“I’m working,” I protest, automatically glancing around the room. Of course, half the diner is watching this unfold like it’s part of the morning’s entertainment.

“You’re surviving,” Imani corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Coffee,” I say weakly, gesturing behind me. “People need coffee.”

“People need answers,” Shelly counters unhelpfully.

I level them both with a look. “You are not putting me in a salon chair to get answers out of me.”

Imani smiles slowly. “We’ll see.”

“I’m on shift.”

“You have a few moments.”