Page 80 of Matchmaking On The Menu

Shifting my grip on the handlebars, I start turning the bike around, the back wheel giving a sad, crunchy protest as if it’s offended that I expect it to function in any capacity whatsoever.

New headline.

LOCAL WOMAN FORCED INTO WALK OF SHAME WITH BROKEN BICYCLE, PRIDE ALSO IN CRITICAL CONDITION.

I start pushing. It’s anything but graceful.

The wheel drags slightly, the chain doing whatever the mechanical equivalent of sulking is, and every few steps there’s a tiny jolt that travels up my arms like the bike is reminding me who’s really in control here. But fine, I can adapt. I always adapt.

The diner’s only a few blocks back, and once I drop this mechanical disappointment off, I can just walk to the print shop. It’s not like I haven’t done it before. It’s fine. It’s scenic. It’s character building.

Shelly will pay.

I narrow my eyes again.

“Why does everything that builds character feel suspiciously like a mild inconvenience?” I mutter. No answer. Just the soft scrape of rubber on pavement and the faint rustle of leaves skittering past like they’re late for something. I keep going. Because the thing is, Shelly’s print job is not optional.

She had that look this morning. The one that says she has a Vision. Capital V. The kind that involves glitter, possibly glue, and definitely something that will somehow become my responsibility if it goes wrong. And I am not, not, going back empty-handed. Especially when I can get her to cover a shift as payback. Never mind that she owes me for the surprise-party-for-Quadri incident of last year.

So, yes, fine. I will push the bike. I will drop it off, and I will then walk my determined, slightly bruised ego to the print shop like the capable adult I occasionally pretend to be. Because nothing, nothing, is going to derail me over something as small as a broken chain. I pause mid-step as the bike gives another pathetic little crunch.

“Okay, slightly derailed,” I amend. “But not defeated.”

Headline revision.

LOCAL WOMAN REFUSES TO BE STOPPED BY MINOR MECHANICAL FAILURE, CONTINUES JOURNEY WITH QUESTIONABLE DIGNITY.

I lift my chin a little, grip tightening on the handlebars, and keep walking.

The back lot comes into view slowly, the familiar stretch of cracked tar and faded parking lines opening up behind the diner. There’s something comforting about it, so routine and predictable. I angle the bike toward the side entrance, already planning my next move. Drop the bike, ignore the betrayal, power walk to the print shop, secure Shelly’s chaos project, return victorious and hold it over Shelly for life. Simple.

I push through the last stretch, the wheel giving one final, dramatic crunch like it’s signing off on its performance for the day.

“Hand over your purse.” The voice cuts through the air, low and rough, like metal dragged over concrete. I freeze. Not in a cute, processing-information way. In a full-body, brain-screeching-to-a-halt kind of way.

I turn slowly, my grip tightening instinctively on the handlebars, and then my brain just… stops cooperating entirely.

Because standing a few feet behind me is a very large, very broad, very clearly not-here-to-chat-about-the-weather figure dressed head-to-toe in black. Boots. Pants. Hoodie. Gloves.

Intimidation level: high.

Threat level: extremely not ideal.

And then there’s the face.

I blink. Once. Twice.

Nope. Still there.

Because from the neck up, it’s a little old lady. Soft gray curls. Wrinkled skin. A sweet, pinched mouth like she’s about to ask if I’ve eaten enough today. A full, uncanny, deeply unsettling little old lady face on a body that could absolutely throw me across the parking lot without breaking a sweat. My brain scrambles to make sense of it and fails spectacularly.

“I’m sorry,” I say slowly, because apparently this is how I die, confused but polite. “Am I being mugged or aggressively invited to tea?”

The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t do anything except take one slow step closer.

“Purse,” the voice repeats, just as gruff, just as threatening.

Okay, so this is real. This is actually happening.