Page 47 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

“You don’t say.”

Cristina chuckles. “I do say. They’re like parents to me. I call them Mom and Dad. But—”

“Oh, there’s a but, now, is there?”

Her eyes sparkle. “There is. But they’re from the north, so folks in town used to call them Yankees.”

“Some Southerners don’t let go of tradition.”

“If you call that a tradition.”

I put down my fork and swipe my napkin over my mouth. “You must not fully appreciate the true rivalry between Southerners and Yankees. It’s not so much about North versus South—it’s about a way of being, a way of living.”

“And how’s that?”

“Some Southerners see Northerners as brash, always rushing, not taking the time to slow down and appreciate what’s around them. Maybe they don’t say good morning to strangers, don’t wave when a kind, thoughtful Southerner lets them into traffic.”

She sits with that a minute, her gaze level on me. “And what about you?” she whispers. “How do you see them?”

“As people.”

She blinks, snapping out of whatever grabbed her. “Well played, Maddox.”

“Thank you, Palmer. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For the rest of dinner, we theorize what tomorrow’s competition could be, our ideas ranging from wrangling piggycorns to riding unicorns through town. But ultimately, neither of us knows what the challenge will bring.

When it’s time to go, I escort her from the restaurant. On the way, we pass Jace and Holly, who have two opened bottles of wine sitting atop their table. They stare at each other through an alcohol haze, their closeness suggesting something more than friendly petting could happen tonight.

Cristina spots them, too, and her steps falter for just a moment before she collects herself and sweeps past.

I’m tempted to ask if seeing her ex here bothers her. If Holly’s the kind of woman Jace always wanted. If Cristina ever wonders what would’ve happened if the quilt had matched them instead of us.

But I don’t ask any of that because I don’t want to hear what she might or might not say.

We ride up the elevator in silence, and when I say good night outside her door, we both linger a moment too long.

“See you bright and early,” I say.

“I’ll be working tomorrow morning.”

“Do you have a lot of clients?”

“I’m fully booked.”

’Course you are. “Don’t wear yourself out.”

Her gaze drops to my lips, and I feel the pull of her. She’s magnetic, undeniable, and just close enough to catch the floral scent of her shampoo. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her blue eyes. Close enough to wonder what she tastes like.

Her breath stills, and for a split second, neither of us moves.

Then she blinks and leans back, whatever spell between us broken. “Good night.”

I retreat a couple steps. “Good night.”

No way—absolutely not—will I fall for Cristina. It’s best for both of us.

Soon as I’m inside my room, I push a chair up under the adjoining doors.