Page 1

Allie

The wail of the milk steamer is nearly as loud as the wail of my boss’s voice in my earbuds.

“Allie, you’re not an investigative reporter. You are our food editor…one of our most coveted positions, might I add. And you are damn good at it.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh, looking down into the orchid design that’s fading away in my salted caramel oat milk latte.

“If my current position is that coveted, then it will be easy to fill,” I reply.

I did not go into six-figures of debt attending one of the best journalism schools in the country only to spend my life giving fluff reviews of deconstructed cheesecakes and crab bisque.

“You need a new investigative journalist now that Dave moved to Orlando. I can do that. I was made to do that. I’ll…I’ll even stay on as the food reviewer and copyeditor for the paper!” Because I only do one review a week, I supplement the rest of my income by copyediting for the paper, too.

Not ex actly what I had in mind with my vision board in undergrad…

but nonetheless, it pays the bills.

In some ways, I think my copyediting skills are more valuable to them than my journalism skills.

“Please, Soleil,” I beg her.

“There’s got to be an article idea I can pitch you that you’ll be excited to let me try to write. What about that piece I pitched about the health inspectors taking bribes for better ratings?” I add, lowering my voice to a whisper.

“No one cares about a rating being raised from a B to an A for an under-the-table payoff,” she scoffs.

I can practically hear Soleil’s eyes rolling into the back of her head from here in this coffee shop.

“They’ll care when they realize the meat they’re getting served for sixty dollars a plate is a lower grade than dog food!”

Soleil sighs once more.

“Allie,” she says, and in the background, I hear the soft click of her office door closing.

“Half of the restaurants you review sponsor our newspaper. And the other half advertise within it. We can’t throw them under the bus because you want to make a name for yourself as a real journalist.”

I rub the corner of my eyes.

This is exactly the problem with my current job.

I write fluff.

And I’m not even allowed to review honestly.

If I’m giving a place anything less than three stars, the Charleston Sun makes me go back for a second review, where my superiors strongly encourage me to rethink my rating.

And I’m pretty sure they tip off the chefs that I’m coming.

“Okay,” I draw out the word as I think.

“I’ll come up with something else, then…”

I tap my pen to the space between my eyes.

Think, Allie.

Think !

“I’ll tell you what,” Soleil says, her voice softening.

“I’ll give you until Monday to come up with a killer pitch. If you can get me an idea that’s salacious and sexy, I’ll give you one shot at an investigative piece. From there, we’ll reevaluate. Deal?”

“Oh my God. Yes! Deal! It’s a deal! Thank you, Soleil!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she grumbles before hanging up on me.

“Yes,” I whisper to myself.

I have so many ideas in my tank; this is going to be a piece of cake.

Spoiler: This is not a piece of cake.

So far, my idea tank is total crap.

I’m beginning to see why Soleil had never jumped on any of these article pitches.

Three hours and four lattes later, my little neighborhood coffee shop is officially switching shifts into their late-night bar menu.

It’s the trendiest place in my neighborhood; during the daytime, it’s the best coffee shop.

And at night, it transforms into a date spot.

The perfect cozy bar for either happy hour specials or a delightful after-dinner nightcap.

But right now, I’m not in the mood to celebrate as Melanie comes up to take my empty mug away.

“You want another?” she asks me.

I shake my head.

“If I have another coffee, I’ll be up until four in the morning.”

She lifts her brows at me.

“Our Pinot is half off right now for happy hour.”

“Sold,” I say with a nod.

“You know I can’t resist a good glass of Pinot.”

“I know you can’t resist a good discount,” she teases.

I would stick my tongue out at her, but before I can, she procures a glass and bottle from the counter beside her, giving me more than my fair share of a healthy pour.

Can’t bite the hand that feeds you, right?

I take a long sip and glance around the café.

My fellow coffee shop workers have long since packed up their laptops and have been replaced with people in cute outfits and dangly earrings on dates.

Men in suits on their way home from the office stop to have a pint with friends and scope out the girls here for a quick happy hour.

A couple of people sit alone, reading, decompressing after a long day.

A few couples lean in across the small tables, clearly on a date night, stealing little brushes of their hands and glances over a glass of wine.

I’ve always loved people watching and this place is prime real estate for it.

A particular couple catches my eye at the corner table across from me.

She’s wearing the cutest little flowered top and jeans so tight that I seriously question how she’s able to sit at all.

The man she’s with has a handsome, studious look to him.

Horn-rimmed glasses, unkempt dark hair that curls over the collar of his oxford shirt.

And elbow patches.

The man has elbow patches.

I would bet my apartment that he’s a professor.

She awkwardly extends her hand to him as he lowers himself to sit across from her.

First date.

An adorable first date, too.

I sip my wine, enjoying the show as they chat for a few minutes and she fidgets, constantly pulling her hair and smoothing it over her ear.

“Quit playing with your hair,” a man sitting beside me mutters quietly.

I smile and glance at him, thinking he must be enjoying the show, too.

Only, he isn’t watching the couple with the same lighthearted curiosity I am.

He’s got his eyes cast down on a laptop.

And pulled up on the screen is a picture of the girl on the date…

and the guy on the date.

And below their pictures, their names and stats are listed…

Brianne Hamilton and Professor Elliott Carlisle.

Professor!

I knew it.

I give myself a little mental fist bump.

Is this man a stalker?

Her ex-boyfriend?

“Just put your hands in your lap,” he instructs.

And what’s even more surprising…

the woman, Brianne, it seems…

listens to him.

She immediately stops fidgeting with her hair and clenches her hands in her lap beneath the table.

What in the absolute hell is going on here?

I force myself not to stare at him, but my journalism spidey senses are tingling.

Suddenly, a crash comes from Brianne’s table.

She knocked over both her wineglass and his, causing them to shatter.

Red wine cascades to the floor, splattering on the professor’s camel-colored leather loafers.

“Oh my gosh!” she cries.

“I’m so sorry! I’m nervous, you know?”

“Relax,” the man beside me says.

“Breathe.”

Melanie rushes over and quickly cleans the mess while beside me, I listen to the man do damage control .

“I’ve seen dates come back from way worse than this,” he reassures her.

“My intel shows that he has a golden retriever. Tell him something charming. Like…how you have to have plastic wineglasses at home because you’re always afraid your dog might step on a broken shard of glass.”

Brianne gives a little titter and repeats the man almost verbatim.

Elliott’s eyes light up.

“You have a dog?” he asks.

She nods, beaming too.

“I do! He’s a beagle. Do you like dogs?”

“I love dogs. I’ve got a golden,” Elliott adds.

“Good, good,” the mysterious man beside me says with a sigh.

“Back on track.”

Brianne tucks her hair behind her ear and I get a glimpse of a small earpiece tucked in her ear.

An earpiece?

“Don’t put your hair behind your ear!” he hisses and just as quickly, she flinches, fixing her hair so it covers her ear once more.

What in the Cyrano de Bergerac is going on here?

I keep my head down, listening and stealing glances here and there for another thirty minutes, pretending to be typing on my laptop the whole time.

This is definitely some sort of date that’s been arranged by the matchmaker guy sitting beside me.

Only, I’m certain this Elliott guy has no idea he’s been set up so blatantly.

I have questions.

So, so, so many questions.

Eventually, their date ends with a cute hug and the two part, Elliott leaving first.

She glances at the man beside me briefly and I notice a barely imperceptive shake of his head.

Swallowing, she turns and runs out the door, not looking back.

Who is this man?

Is he the Jason Bourne of matchmaking?

Something tells me this is the sort of salacious reporting Soleil might be looking for.

It’s got a little of everything.

Deceit.

Sex.

Intrigue.

Lies.

The man smoothly stands and that’s when I see how muscular he is.

And how impeccably dressed he is.

His biceps strain against the crisp button-down shirt he wears, and his gray slacks are perfectly fitted to thick columned thighs and an ass so tight that I find myself literally mesmerized by it as he walks away from me.

I snap out of my gaze as he glides out the door fluidly and no one else in the café seems to notice him at all.

Crap!

If I let him get away, I may never find him again!

I toss my laptop into my bag and throw some cash onto the table, more than enough to cover my bill, and run out the door after him.

I spot him halfway down the block already, moving in sure, long strides of his muscular legs.

I keep a good distance away, following him.

I just need a storefront.

An apartment number.

A license plate.

Anything to research and track him down later and find a name for whatever this matchmaking business he seems to be running.

He turns a corner and I lose sight of him.

No!

I pick up my pace, running after him and turn the same corner…

only it isn’t down a street.

It’s an alley.

An alley that leads to a dead end .

Where the hell did he go?

Suddenly, a shadow appears out of nowhere and I feel the cool metal tip of a gun press against my back.

With a gasp and probably foolishly, I whip around and find myself face-to-face with the man from the café.

His deep voice snarls, “Why are you following me?”