Page 72 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I glance down at my hands, brushing my fingers together again like I can shake off the feeling of it. “I just… I don’t want to be that. Not all the time.”

Honest. A little too honest, but not the way he’s going to assume.

When I look back up, he’s still watching me, but there’s something steadier in his expression now. More certain. “You’re not,” he says.

I huff out a small, disbelieving breath. “Luke⁠—”

“No, you’re not,” he repeats, a little firmer this time. “They joke because it’s easy. Not because it’s true.”

I shift my weight, because now I feel like a jerk because he’s all in on this.

“I mean, you did just stand there and hold something steady for me without moving,” he adds, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “That already puts you ahead of most people.”

A small smile slips out before I can stop it.

“That’s a very low bar. Plus, I did move, remember?”

“Only a smidge.” He presses his thumb and forefinger together. “Still counts.”

Damn it, Luke.

This is exactly why I came here. I knew he’d listen. I knew he’d be on my side. I just didn’t expect him to be this supportive. It makes what I’m about to do feel worse somehow.

The thing is, I’m not actually bothered by the jokes at the diner. Not really. They’re easy and familiar. Safe in a way that doesn’t ask anything from me. I’m digging deep into how things are with my dad for this. It’s the way he still looks at me like I’m about five seconds away from needing supervision. Like I can’t make a decision without it somehow becoming a problem.

And somehow, that’s followed me. I’m method acting right now.

Which means Luke doesn’t actually know what he’s agreeing to help me fix.

I’m committed now, though. There’s no backing out without it being obvious, and I’ve come too far for that. I’m definitely going to hell.

When all of this is done, I’m taking him out to dinner. That feels like the bare minimum. I glance away again, the smile fading into something more thoughtful. “I just want them to see me differently, I guess.”

A breath passes between us. Then something changes in his expression, interest sparking in his eyes.

“How differently?” he asks.

I blink. “What?”

“How differently do you want them to see you?” he repeats, a little more intent now. “Because there’s ‘stop calling you the baby’ and then there’s making a point.”

It makes me feel worse that this is so easy.

I hesitate. “I don’t need to make a point.”

He gives me a look.

I sigh. “Okay, maybe a small point.”

“Right,” he says, like that confirms something. “Then we don’t just tell them. We show them.”

That should probably concern me, but it doesn’t.

“What does that mean?” I ask, even though there’s already a small, nervous sort of curiosity building in my chest. His mouth tilts slightly. Not a full smile. More the expression he gets right before one of his ideas becomes everyone else’s problem.

“It means,” he says, “we give them something else to talk about.”

And just like that I have a feeling I didn’t come here with a plan. But I might be leaving with one.