Page 10

Allie

“Thatcher?” I call out, the heels of my shoes clicking against the pavement like a clock counting down to something inevitable.

And there he is, standing by the entrance to the Westin hotel, where inside a ballroom for the Tuxes and Tails Gala awaits us.

His figure somehow imposing yet reassuring in the soft glow of the streetlights.

“Ready for your mission, Agent Larsen?” Thatcher asks as I close the distance between us.

“Meet Cute or my money back, right?”

“That’s right. Successful meet cute guarantee.” His smirk twitches the tiniest bit toward his eyes as he holds up an earpiece for me to take.

I snort and take the earpiece from him, pausing before I tuck it in.

“This thing’s been sanitized, right?”

“Do I look like the kind of man who wears dirty earpieces?” His green eyes glint with that familiar seriousness.

“Fair enough,” I mutter before tucking it into my right ear and smoothing my hair down to cover it from view.

“Testing? Testing?” I whisper.

“Roger that,” Thatcher’s voice crackles through the earpiece.

He pauses to adjust the black tie of his tuxedo.

“Communication is key.”

“Got it, boss.” My tone is light, teasing, trying to shake off the nerves bubbling up inside me.

He turns my chin to the side, his touch soft as he adjusts the earpiece slightly for me.

“I prefer sir, but Boss will do nicely, I suppose,” he quietly jokes.

A shiver tumbles down my spine as his fingers brush the sensitive skin of my neck.

“So…” I clear my throat as his thumb and forefinger smooth a single curl of my hair.

“Am I here to meet anyone specific? Or overall you think there might be a fellow dog lover inside this gala made exactly for me?”

“I have someone specific in mind,” he says simply.

I wait for more information, but he offers no further details.

“And? Who is he?”

“Nice try, Allie,” he replies, a hint of amusement lacing his otherwise stern tone.

“You’ll know when it’s time.”

“What? I don’t even get to know ahead of time who this guy is? Would you send your admirals into a mission without them knowing the facts?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“I certainly wouldn’t. Mostly because admirals outrank me.”

I huff out a breath.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t want you to know who he is yet because then you’ll be too eager. And what if there’s someone in there you click with more naturally? I’d like to keep your options open without you getting too in your own head when you meet the person I think might be a good fit,” he says.

“Ugh, you are infuriating, you know that?” Despite my complaint, a smile tugs at my lips.

Thatcher has a way of pushing my buttons, making every interaction feel like a chess match where I’m perpetually one move behind.

And kind of like a chess match, even when I’m losing, it’s still fun.

“Stay sharp. Remember what we talked about,” he instructs, ignoring my jab.

“Right, don’t spill drinks, don’t talk about conspiracy theories, and for goodness’ sake, don’t trip on anything.” I list off the main points from our earlier briefing, each one punctuated by an exaggerated hand gesture.

“Exactly.” He gives me a curt nod, then he splits off from me so that we don’t enter together.

I take a deep breath, waiting a few beats before stepping into the grandiose hall, the buzz of conversation wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

“Okay, Thatcher, Operation Prince Charming is underway,” I whisper, scanning the room filled with elegantly dressed guests mingling among vibrant displays of silent auction items, all supporting the local animal rescue.

“Remember, let it happen naturally.” The words vibrate against my eardrum, Thatcher’s reminder grounding me.

“Right, naturally,” I mumble, only half listening as I accept a flute of champagne from a passing server.

“Do I look like a loser coming to a gala all alone?” I whisper into the earpiece.

“I’m even talking to myself like a weirdo loner.”

“Relax,” Thatcher says into my ear.

“Lots of people come to these things alone. It’s perfectly normal. But you’re right about one thing… You may want to stop talking.”

I smooth my palm over the emerald-green gown that I borrowed from my boss.

She wanted to give me her Prada dress, but God help me if I spilled something on that .

I insisted on borrowing the elegant dress that she found at last year’s sample sale.

Worst-case scenario, I can afford to reimburse her if anything happens to this Ralph Lauren dress.

I scan the ballroom, eyeing the different men here and can’t help but wonder which one Thatcher has picked for me.

Across the room, a man smiles at me from where he’s chatting with two older women.

On the stage, a guitarist is playing with the live band.

“It’s the guitarist, isn’t it?” I whisper, holding up my champagne flute to cover my moving lips.

“You’re setting me up with a dog-loving musician?”

I can hear his exasperated sigh.

“There’s no guarantee the band loves dogs,” he says.

“This may just be a paying gig for them.”

“Hmmmm, good point.” Against the farthest wall, a man in a tuxedo sets up the silent auction items, bossing around some hotel employees.

“How about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome volunteer over by the silent auction table?”

There’s a beat of silence before Thatcher says, “You think he’s tall, dark, and handsome?”

“It is him, isn’t it?” I squeal, getting excited.

“No, it’s not. Stop trying to figure it out and enjoy the event.”

Snickering to myself, I turn away from the silent auction table and bump right into a man beside me.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” I start to say at the same time he also apologizes.

He’s already extending his hand, his smile friendly but forgettable.

“I’m Chad,” he says.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Chad.” I take his hand, shaking it, but he doesn’t release me.

He stands there, holding my hand, staring at me .

“Your name, Allie,” Thatcher says in my ear.

“He’s waiting for your name.”

“Oh! Right, sorry, I’m Allie,” I offer, feeling my cheeks warm.

“Why are you apologizing?” he laughs.

“Oh, just…um…do you have a dog?”

“Cats,” he says.

“I’ve rescued five from the Animal Rescue League.”

“Five!” I exclaim.

“Five cats, wow. That’s a lot.”

“Allie…” Thatcher warns me quietly.

He shrugs.

“Not really. Cats are very self-sufficient.”

“Sure, sure. But wow, the litter box situation must be wild in your house.”

This earns me another sigh from Thatcher.

“Maybe steer clear of litter box talk.”

“They’re actually all potty trained,” Chad says with a grin.

I blink in shock.

“Your cats are potty trained? As in, they use the actual toilet?”

“That’s right,” he says, nodding proudly.

“Like in Meet the Parents ?” I ask once more for clarification.

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s actually not that hard.”

I’m so not a cat person, but this is suddenly fascinating.

“So do they have their own bathroom? Or do you share a bathroom with the cats? Like if you wake up in the middle of the night to pee and they’re already in there, do you have to wait while they finish?”

“No, no,” he chuckles.

“They have their own bathroom.”

“Well, that’s good. It might get crowded in a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment.”

“Excuse yourself to go look at the silent auction items,” Thatcher says.

“Unless you enjoy talking about the bathroom habits of a single man living with five cats.”

I cough to cover my laugh and do as Thatcher says, excusing myself from Chad.

For the next half hour, I bounce from one potential suitor to the next, each brief encounter more cringe-inducing than the last.

“I’m a disaster,” I mutter under my breath after accidentally launching a vol-au-vent across the room with an overzealous hand gesture.

“Nobody said espionage was going to be easy,” Thatcher’s voice teases me, and despite myself, I laugh—a genuine, belly-deep chuckle that momentarily clears the fog of my anxiety.

Focus, Allie.

I take another sip of champagne and steel myself for the rest of the evening.

“Relax,” Thatcher advises, as if reading my mind.

“Let them come to you.”

“Easy for you to say,” I quip back, but I take his advice, taking a seat at a high-top table and watching the gala unfold before me, its tapestry of laughter and light slowly weaving a spell around my jittery heart.

Leaning against the wall, Thatcher blends into the crowd shockingly well.

Actually, it’s inconceivable.

He’s stunningly handsome in his tuxedo.

But handsome with the kind of ease that isn’t overly coiffed like some pretty boy who wouldn’t dare to get caught in a rainstorm.

I watch Thatcher scan the room with a tactical precision that could put a seasoned sniper to shame.

The way he subtly positions himself always facing an exit is straight out of a spy novel.

I fumble with my phone, holding it as though I’m texting someone, but secretly angle for a candid shot of Thatcher standing there .

He looks like a model, the way he’s leaning a shoulder casually against the wall, champagne flute in hand.

He could be on the cover of GQ .

“Easy there, paparazzi,” Thatcher’s voice crackles through the earpiece, and I nearly drop my phone onto the table.

“You’re supposed to be charming donors, not documenting their every move.”

“Charming is my middle name,” I lie, standing up and nervously smoothing out my dress again.

“Oh yeah? Allison Charming Larsen, I bet that escargot you launched across the room has a different middle name for you.”

“It was a vol-au-vent, thank you very much.”

“What was a vol-au-vent?” a man says behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin, knocking the chair I’d just been sitting in over, sending it crashing to the floor.

The man doesn’t seem deterred by my clumsiness and merely bends over with ease to pick the fallen chair up.

He’s one of the few people at the party wearing a silver-plated name tag that reads Kenneth, which means he’s one of the board members of the nonprofit.

“I was just saying that the vol-au-vent was my favorite canape to…” I pause, realizing to him, it looks like I was talking to a ghost.

“To myself.”

“Nice save,” Thatcher mutters sarcastically.

Isn’t he supposed to be helping me?

Not commenting like the two old hecklers in The Muppets?

“I’m glad you like them,” Kenneth says, smiling wider.

If he finds it weird I’m sitting alone talking to myself about finger foods, he doesn’t let on.

“One of my clients is the caterer. I’ll pass it onto her that you’re a fan.”

“What do you do?” Even though my attempts at small talk are lame, he answers warmly and quickly .

“I’m a hedge fund manager.”

Inwardly, I give a big, fat yawn.

Bo-ring .

“You could at least pretend to be interested, Allie,” Thatcher says.

But before I can respond to either of them, Kenneth rolls his eyes.

“Boring, I know. But it pays the bills and makes it so I can come to things like this and spend my free time helping animals in need.”

Huh.

Less boring.

“You’re on the board,” I state and gesture to his name tag.

“For two years now,” he says.

“I’m Allie Larsen, animal lover and food reviewer.” Kenneth takes my hand when I offer it.

“Food reviewer. It’s going to mean even more that you liked the vol-au-vent, then. Have you seen the rescue animals we brought tonight?”

My eyes widen.

“There’re rescue animals here? At the gala?”

He nods, his smile widening.

“We always bring a few of our most well-behaved. Come on.” He offers me his elbow to take.

“I’ll introduce you to them.”

I pause, waiting to hear Thatcher’s advice, but he’s silent.

I scan the room and find him engaged in a conversation with a stunning woman in a gold sparkly dress and siren red hair.

What the hell?

Is this what I’m paying him for?

I clear my throat and take Kenneth’s arm.

“That’d be great,” I say, allowing him to lead me out of the ballroom.

Five minutes later, I’m rolling on the floor of the back room with a pittie puppy and I don’t even care that I’m probably going to have to reimburse my boss for this dress.

It’s worth it with every puppy kiss I get .

“Oh, aren’t you the most perfect little thing?” I coo.

Beside me, a mixed hound dog gives a long, howling bark.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re perfect, too.” I pause to give the older dog some love as well.

“Allie?” I hear the crackle of Thatcher’s voice in my ear.

“Allie, where are you?” He sounds more panicked than a man at a black-tie event should.

I clear my throat and stand up, putting the puppy back down on the floor.

“Thank you for taking me back here to see the rescue dogs, Kenneth.”

A fact you would know, Thatcher, if you bothered to do your job rather than flirt with socialites.

I hear Thatcher’s sigh of relief and resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Of course,” Kenneth says.

“Do you have dogs?”

“I have one,” I say.

“A fluffy, little guy that I rescued from an overfilled puppy mill. What about you?”

“I have two. An Irish Setter and a lab mix. Plus I’m fostering this little lady,” Kenneth adds, bending to scratch the hound dog behind the ears.

“Fostering, wow. I don’t know that I could give them up.”

“It’s hard,” he says.

“But really gratifying.”

I bend to give the hound a few more snuggles and kiss the top of her velvety head.

“Ugh, how could anyone waste their time breeding designer dogs when there’s so many in need of homes?”

Thatcher groans.

“Allie?—”

“I mean, can you imagine?” I continue, cutting Thatcher off.

He doesn’t get to jump back into our conversation after ghosting me and judge what we’re saying.

“Spending several thousand dollars on a dog when there’s the sweetest pups in need every day? ”

“Allie,” Thatcher snaps more firmly this time.

“Kenneth’s mother breeds designer dogs.”

Panicked, my eyes go wide as I look up at Kenneth.

But to my surprise, his expression isn’t angry or guarded.

In fact, it’s soft.

“Couldn’t agree more,” he says.

“Dogs aren’t accessories, they’re family. Imagine how many dogs we could save if people took the five-thousand dollars they spend on a toy poodle-doodle whatever mix and donated it to the rescue instead.”

His earnestness catches me off guard.

“Y-yes, exactly. Five thousand dollars for one dog could save so many from euthanasia.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he adds.

“In full disclosure, my mother breeds show dogs. I joined the board to try to make amends for my mother’s…enthusiasm with Irish Setters.”

“Did we just become best friends?” I tease.

I’m shocked that I found this rare flicker of connection amidst the sea of small talk and empty smiles.

“Do you feel like dancing?” Kenneth asks me.

“In here?”

He chuckles.

“I was thinking back in the ballroom…on the dance floor. But hey, if you want to spend the rest of the night in here with the pups, I won’t argue.”

“Don’t you dare hide out with the dogs all night, Allie,” Thatcher chastises me.

“No, no,” I say to Kenneth.

Not because Thatcher told me to, but because I want to spend more time with him.

“A dance would be lovely.”

“Think you can manage to dance without tripping or spilling anything?” Thatcher chides, but I tune him out.

For once, I’m having a real conversation at one of these shindigs, and it feels surprisingly good.

Moments later, we’re stepping onto the dance floor.

The music swells—a rhythmic beat that promises an escape into the world of swirling dresses and dapper suits.

I take a deep breath, poised to follow Kenneth’s lead.

But it isn’t long before I realize something’s off.

Usually, I can glide across a dance floor with the ease of water slipping through fingers, but with Kenneth, it’s like trying to waltz with a bookshelf.

Stiff, unyielding, and oh-so awkward.

Is it me?

Have I suddenly lost all rhythmic ability?

Or does Kenneth’s and my chemistry only extend as far as our love of rescue dogs?

“Left foot, Allie,” Thatcher murmurs as I trod on Kenneth’s shiny black shoe for what must be the third time in a two-minute period.

A grimace flashes across Kenneth’s face, but it vanishes quickly, replaced by a polite smile.

“Sorry,” I say again, feeling like a broken record.

“I’m not usually this uncoordinated.”

“Liar,” Thatcher supplies unhelpfully.

The extra chuckle in his voice makes me wish I could stomp on his foot instead.

“Truth be told, I’m no Fred Astaire myself,” Kenneth admits, and I could kiss him for being so decent about it.

“Would you...” Kenneth’s voice trails off in an endearingly shy way as he steers us awkwardly through a spin that ends with my hair flinging into my eyes.

“Would you like to have dinner with me next week? Maybe somewhere less...slippery?”

“This is good,” Thatcher’s voice crackles in my ear.

But he doesn’t sound happy that Kenneth is asking me out.

If anything, he sounds annoyed.

“Now, play it cool, Allie. Say maybe, and don’t be too eager.”

I’m immediately annoyed at Thatcher.

He’s been wrong about Kenneth almost every step of the way and even disappeared on us when we went into the other room.

Isn’t this the point of tonight?

Isn’t the point to get me a date?

Don’t be too eager, my ass…

“How about next Tuesday, at La Cucina di Lucia. Seven o’clock,” I blurt out before Thatcher can chastise me.

My heart gallops at my own boldness, a mix of defiance and sheer panic bubbling up inside me.

“Wow, ummm, okay,” Kenneth replies, taken aback.

His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, and the warmth in his gaze seems to cool by a degree or two.

Uh-oh.

Maybe Thatcher was right.

Maybe I’m coming on too strong.

“Too eager, Allie. You’re making him retreat,” Thatcher grumbles and I can practically feel his frown.

But I shake my head, trying to shrug off the bad vibes coming from Thatcher.

This was my dance, my chance—and if I’m going to trip over my own feet, I’ll do it on my terms.

“Sorry if that’s too direct,” I say to Kenneth.

“But if you’re looking to play cat and mouse, I might not be the right girl for you.”

“No, not at all,” Kenneth says quickly.

“I’m just surprised. There’s usually this whole song and dance before we solidify a date and time. It’s refreshing to meet a woman who, um, knows what she wants.”

“Thank you,” I say pointedly, hoping Thatcher heard every word of that.

“So, does seven o’clock next Tuesday work for you?”

“I think so…” he says, his words trailing off.

“I’ll check my schedule tonight and let you know.”

There’s nothing innately wrong with his words, but there’s a sudden coolness that sits wrong with me.

Before I can respond, a firm hand taps Kenneth on the shoulder and Thatcher’s low, insistent voice is no longer in my earpiece, but standing beside me.

“May I cut in?” he asks Kenneth, though it’s more of a command than a question.

“Uh, sure,” Kenneth stammers.

Though he seems surprised at the interruption, he manages to step back, a polite nod disguising his confusion.

Thatcher sweeps me into his arms and fox trots us away from Kenneth.

“Thatcher, what are you?—”

“Saving you from another foot catastrophe,” he mutters as we fall into step, his lead undeniable.

The confidence in his movement is a stark contrast to the clumsy shuffle I’ve been enduring with Kenneth and for the first time all night, I wonder if it wasn’t my fault that I kept stumbling and stepping on him.

It’s hard not to notice how well our bodies sync, mine and Thatcher’s.

His grip on my waist tightens just enough to be distracting.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” he whispers, his cheek pressed to mine and the heat of his breath against my ear.

“Why hire me if you’re going to ignore everything I say?”

Annoyance flares within me.

“Ignore you?” I hiss.

“You disappeared for like fifteen minutes on me!”

“I got caught chatting with a couple of the event coordinators and couldn’t escape them. I turned off my microphone so I wouldn’t distract you and figured you’d be fine for a few minutes. But silly me for assuming.”

“I was fine,” I say.

“I got the dance. And he asked me out, didn’t he?”

“Sure and then you blew it by acting too eager.”

“I don’t like games and playing hard to get isn’t my style. I thought the whole point was that you didn’t want to change me?” I shoot back, my words quick, clipped.

Our eyes lock into an intense stare that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

This quiet but heated argument feels almost intimate, our faces inches apart.

“It’s not playing hard to get. It’s…it’s…not diving in headfirst without thinking,” he snaps, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes my heart race.

“Maybe I’m tired of overthinking everything,” I retort, trying to match his steely resolve with my own fiery defiance.

Before either of us crafts another comeback, the music shifts into a slow, sultry melody that wraps around us like a warm breeze.

We both go stoney and I freeze, ice replacing my spine.

Thatcher hesitates for a fraction of a second before drawing me closer, his hand gliding around the small of my back.

Our bodies align, and suddenly we’re swaying in perfect harmony to the languid beat.

“See? Not so difficult when you find the right rhythm,” he murmurs.

“Is that a metaphor for life or just dancing?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood, but my voice comes out way softer than I intend.

“Could be both,” he answers, his voice deepening.

My eye travels over the faint scar on his jaw that holds the secret to a story I suddenly want to know every detail about.

My breath hitches as Thatcher leans in, his intent clear in his half-closed eyes.

But then he stops, hovering on the edge of a moment that feels like it could redefine everything.

My chest heaves, caught between disappointment and relief when he stops just short of kissing me.

“Kenneth is watching us,” Thatcher whispers, his nose so close it barely grazes my own.

The spell breaks, and I glance over to see Kenneth indeed looking our way, a contemplative expression etched onto his face.

Reality rushes back, reminding me of the pretense, the earpiece, my article, and the job at hand.

“That’s why you asked me to dance? To make him jealous?” I search his green gaze for something beyond the strategic coach I’d hired.

The intensity in Thatcher’s green eyes wavers.

For a moment, the gala, the music, even the swish of elegant gowns around us fade into a haze of irrelevance.

My heart pounds, eager for his answer.

“I had to do something. He was going to ghost your Tuesday night date if I didn’t.”

I swallow, ignoring the stab of pain at his admission.

“Are all men really so fickle? That one second he had plans to ghost me but then one new man shows me interest and bam he wants me back?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of jealousy. Most of us don’t like to share our toys.”

Anger fumes in my chest, boiling to dangerous levels.

“Right. Toys . That’s all women are, right?”

“Allie, that’s not what I mean?—”

“May I cut in?” Kenneth’s voice slices through the tension like a cold draft, and I turn to find him extending a hand toward me with a practiced smile.

“Of course,” I reply, more out of reflex than desire, my earlier curiosity about Thatcher’s potential feelings for me now replaced with a sense of duty.

This isn’t about dating.

It’s not about Kenneth.

It’s about extending this undercover mission to get the most information for a killer story.

Get the story.

Get my promotion.

And get out .

As I settle into Kenneth’s arms and we begin to move to the music, my mind races.

“Something wrong? You seem...elsewhere,” Kenneth observes, his brow furrowing slightly beneath his well-groomed dirty blond hair.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head as if I could dislodge all thoughts of Thatcher.

“Just...you know, lots of animals needing homes. It weighs on you.”

“Indeed.” Kenneth nods solemnly, but his eyes don’t quite match the gravity of his tone.

They were probing, analyzing, like he’s trying to read the subtitles of my inner turmoil.

I force a chuckle, hoping it sounds genuine.

“But hey, it’s not every day you get to dance and make a difference, right?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees, spinning me a little too enthusiastically, reminding me that while my feet might be on the dance floor, my head—and possibly my heart—are somewhere else entirely.

“So about Tuesday—” he starts, but I shake my head, Thatcher’s words from earlier weighing on me.

“Sorry if I was too forward?—”

“I’ll meet you there at seven.”