The Matchmaker's Medium by Laurel King Page A

my turn to apologize, Esteban. I didn’t mean to freak you out and ruin your dinner. This always happens to me. I don’t know why I don’t just keep my big mouth shut .”
    “It’s not your fault, Amber. I’m the one who kept pushing you to talk about it. You don’t have to apologize.” He looked so sweet and vulnerable; I wanted to walk over to him and give him a ‘big ol’ squash-hug’ (as my grandma used to call it). I wish grandma was here , I thought for the millionth time. She always knew how to smooth over an awkward situation. This definitely qualified.
    “So—what do you do now?” he asked, changing the subject. I wanted to hug him even more.
    “Well, now I help find ‘matches’ for those who are unlucky in love.”
    He stared at me, his mouth open a little.
    “What?” I asked, in my fake-confused voice.
    “You’re a matchmaker ?” the look on his face was wavering between surprised and bemused.
    “Sure. What’s wrong with that?”
    “Nothing. Just that my best friend’s mom was a gypsy fortune teller slash matchmaker back when I was a kid, in the Bronx. And she was crazy , let me tell ya.”
    “We’re not all crazy, you know.”
    “What made you choose matchmaking as a career?”
    “Could you stop saying it like it’s some kind of Disneyland job?”
    He chuckled, reaching for the bread. Evidently, making fun of my career does wonders for restoring the appetite.
    “Only if you promise to not try and make a ‘match’ for me.”
    “Oh, I can guaran- tee that’s not gonna happen. You can take that to the bank.”
    He looked up, finally aware that he had ticked me off.
    “My bad,” he said, reaching out to me, so I could slip my hands in his. Jerk.
    “I’m hungry. Where’s our food?” I said, pretending to be overly-busy looking for the world’s greatest disappearing waiter. He got the hint and pulled his hands back. Again.
    Several minutes passed, while I picked at my salad and he fiddled with his napkin.
    Awkward much? I thought, wishing I had just stayed home.
    “Truce?” he asked, ducking his head just under my chin so I had to look down just to see him.
    I giggled, in spite of myself.
    “Whew!” he said, wiping his napkin across his forehead. “I almost blew it!”
    “Yeah, well, don’t be too sure you’re out of the woods just yet, Mister Mouthy.” I tried to make an angry face, but it came off pretty lame and funny.
    The waiter finally brought our main courses, steaming plates of delicious gourmet food easily solving our problems.
    “Let’s eat!” he said, digging into a massive steak.

 
     
    Chapter Seven
     
     
    We pulled up to his place in separate cars, thanks to my ‘progressive feminine independence’ (his words). It might seem dumb to him, but I had found myself in more than one uncomfortable situation where a guy refused to take me home because he was mad that I wouldn’t ‘put out’. Talk about the opposite of progressive.
    I turned off my noisy engine, which was immediately replaced by the sound of barking dogs. Enter Dog 1 and Dog 2, stage left.
    Grabbing my purse and cell phone, I killed the headlights and looked at his cute little house. It wasn’t fancy, but it was just like his shop: older and well-kept. The grass was neatly trimmed, along with the bushes and plants at the edge of the yard. The paint wasn’t new, but it was recent; probably touched up within the last few months. He even had a couple of potted plants hanging from hooks above the porch, and a little rubber mat in front of the door that said ‘Welcome’ facing one direction and ‘Farewell’ facing the other. If I smell freshly-baked cookies when we walk in, I’m outta here.
    “Make yourself comfortable,” he called from the other room, as I walked inside, “I need to let the dogs out.” I heard a door slide open and shut, the barking moving from inside the house to the back yard.
    I looked at the comfortable but worn furniture and minimal decorations on the wall,