Page 7 of Mismatched Mates

Now I had the whole family invested in my non-existent love life. I suppressed a groan, wondering if it was too late to fake my own death or move to a remote cave in the Rockies.

"So, tell me all about him," Victoria pressed, leaning in conspiratorially. "What's his name? What does he do? Is he... you know... one of y’all?"

I swallowed hard, my mind racing.

"Well, you know," I hedged, desperately searching for an escape route. "He's... um... it's still pretty new. I don't want to jinx anything by talking about it too much."

Victoria's face softened with understanding. "Of course, of course. I totally get it. Well, I'm just thrilled for you." She and Luke were already technically married, but had waited to plan the ceremony until after she’d made the move from New York permanently.

As she pulled me into a warm hug, I felt a twinge of guilt twist in my gut. Victoria was genuinely happy for me, despite the shitty way I’d treated her. If karma existed, I deserved to choke on my own web of lies in the school parking lot.

"Thanks, Victoria," I managed, patting her back awkwardly. "I, uh, should probably get going. Work and all that."

She released me with a knowing nod. “Don't let me keep you."

As I climbed into my car, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the rearview mirror. The woman staring back at me looked frazzled, guilty, and more than a little lost.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

With a deep breath, I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. I glanced at Victoria's retreating form in my side mirror, her cheerful wave heightening the panic rising in my chest.

"Shit, shit, shit," I muttered, fumbling for my phone. "What am I doing?"

I’d always prided myself on having it all together—before Victoria, I was the one Luke called when he needed someone to wrap presents, plan parties and generally pick up his ex-wife’s slack. But now, I couldn't even keep my own life together.

My fingers hovered over Heather's name but I knew what she’d say. The matchmaking service. The very idea made my stomach churn, but what choice did I have? I'd dug this hole; now I had to lie in it. Or climb out of it. Whatever.

I reluctantly tapped the number out, starting the call.

"Hello, Victory Matchmaking. How may I help you?" a chipper voice answered.

I swallowed hard. "Hi, I'd like to... um... set up an appointment?"

"Wonderful! We'd be happy to help you find your perfect match. May I ask who's calling?"

Perfect match. Right. As if such a thing existed. "Jane Rider," I replied, my voice tight.

As I hung up, having secured an appointment for later that day, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making a hugemistake. But what was the alternative? Admit to Luke and Victoria that I'd lied? That I couldn’t get a date?

Not a chance.

I pulled up to a sprawling Victorian house, its weathered charm a far cry from the sterile office I'd imagined. Neatly trimmed shrubs lined the walkway, and ivy crawled up the stone walls like nature's own wallpaper. No sign, no business facade—just a quaint home that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, gripping the steering wheel. "What is this, Grandma's house of love?"

As I stepped out of the car, the scent of damp earth and aged wood hit me. It was... comforting, it reminded me of the forests where my bear liked to run. I shook off the thought. This wasn't about comfort; this was about damage control.

The wooden porch creaked under my feet as I approached the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the knocker. Was I really going through with this?

"Come on, Jane," I whispered to myself. "You've faced down bridezillas and catering disasters. This is nothing."

The door swung open, revealing a petite woman with a clipboard. "Ms. Rider?" she asked, her voice soft but professional. "Please, come in."

I stepped inside, immediately enveloped by cool air and a soothing silence. The interior was a mishmash of modern and antique, like someone had raided both a Pottery Barn and their great-aunt's attic.

"Follow me," she said, leading me down a narrow hallway.

My shoes clicked against the hardwood floors, each step echoing my discomfort. The subtle scent of lavender mixed with the mustiness of old books.

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