Page 12

Allie

The night was a blur after I passed out.

I recall waking up a couple of times and looking up into Thatcher’s eyes as he carried me.

I grabbed his sleeve, whispering, “Biscuit—someone needs to take care of Biscuit.”

He blinked down at me in surprise.

“You’re worried about your dog right now?”

Of course I’m worried about my dog , I wanted to yell.

She’s my baby!

But I was too groggy and instead found myself laying my head back down on his shoulder and drifting off once more.

Now, consciousness trickles back to me like syrup over a stack of pancakes—slow and sticky.

I blink against the soft morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains, my brain foggy with confusion.

A weight on my legs and a rhythmic thumping sound pulls me further from the haze of sleep.

“Wha—” My voice is a hoarse whisper, the room spinning slightly as I try to sit up.

Biscuit’s wagging tail comes into focus, his whole body vibrating with excitement that I’m finally awake.

He licks my face enthusiastically and I smile despite the groan that leaves my lips.

“Okay, Biscuit,” I mumble, scratching behind his ears.

“How did we end up here?”

The night before swings back into my memory…

The gala, the broken glass, cutting my hand, and passing out.

Thatcher carrying me.

Then I woke up again in his car.

And once more as he was carrying me up a staircase…

presumably, this one.

I had murmured something about Biscuit again to him when he shushed me gently.

“Already taken care of,” he whispered back in his usual gruff tone.

Gathering my wits, I carefully swing my legs over the side of the bed.

My head swims with the sudden movement, forcing me to pause and take a few deep breaths.

Once the dizziness subsides, I look down, noticing that I’m in a pair of sweatpants and a US Naval Academy T-shirt.

Did Thatcher undress me?

Was I that out of it?

With Biscuit in tow, I pad downstairs, each step causing me to feel more and more confused.

The sound of cartoons playing from the living room and the aroma of breakfast cooking leads me into the heart of Thatcher’s home.

A large, open-concept living room bleeds into the kitchen where Thatcher is at the stove cooking.

Duke on the other hand is sitting on the couch, curled up with a blanket, watching cartoons.

“Biscuit!” Duke chirps and Biscuit happily leaps out of my arms and jumps onto the couch, circling twice before falling onto his back for some belly rubs.

“Morning, Allie,” Duke says without taking his eyes off Biscuit.

“Hey there, Duke.” I offer a smile, but my gaze quickly finds Thatcher at the stove, flipping what smells like heavenly pancakes.

“Daddy and I already took Biscuit outside for a walk while you were sleeping.”

I blink, surprised by this.

“You did?”

“Uh-huh.” He nods.

“You were drooling. Daddy said not to wake you.”

Absently, I bring the back of my hand up to the corner of my mouth.

Sexy.

Real sexy.

“Glad you’re up and about,” Thatcher says gruffly, not bothering to turn around.

“Biscuit’s been fed already, too.”

“Fed with what?”

He glances at me.

“When Griffin went to your condo last night, I had him grab some kibble for Biscuit too.”

“Griffin went to my house last night?” I frown and make my way deeper into the kitchen, leaning against the granite island.

Thatcher pauses and turns to look at me, concern passing over his features.

“You don’t remember?” He sets the spatula down and crosses to me, looking deep in my eyes.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks as he brings a hand up to feel my forehead.

I slap him gently away with my non-bandaged hand.

“I feel fine. Just…confused.”

“You were in and out of consciousness after cutting your hand and hitting your head.”

I cringe.

“Sometimes the sight of blood makes me…queasy.”

“This was more than queasy. You went down. Hard enough to leave a sizable goose egg on your head.”

Once more I touch the bump that’s covered by my hair and wince at the sharp pain.

“Well, I had some painkillers on me at the event that you happily took. But after that, I didn’t want to risk you to be alone so I asked you to come to my house. You reluctantly said yes, but were worried about Biscuit. So I sent Griffin to your place to bring Biscuit here.” He shrugs and flips the bacon within the second frying pan.

“Wow, I was really out of it,” I echo, my cheeks warming at the reminder of my less-than-graceful exit from reality.

“Yep,” he replies.

There was a hint of a smirk on his lips, suggesting amusement at my predicament.

“You really don’t remember any of it?”

“Bits and pieces,” I admit, feeling a blush creep up my neck.

“Thank you, though. For taking care of Biscuit…and me, I guess. Did you… Did I…?” I gesture to the sweatpants I’m wearing.

“That was all you,” he says quickly and I can’t help but smile at the tinge of pink that colors his cheeks.

“I provided the pajamas, you did the rest. I figured you wouldn’t want Griffin rifling through your clothing drawers.”

“You figured correctly. What painkillers did you give me? They really knocked me out.”

“Yeah, sorry. It was an acetaminophen codeine blend. But you seemed to need it.”

I nod.

“That explains it. On top of everything else, I have intense reactions to codeine.”

“You do? That wasn’t listed on your intake form,” he huffs.

“Well, I didn’t think you would need to know medical information as my matchmaker .”

He clears his throat and turns back to face the pancakes once more, flipping one in the sizzling pan.

“Right. Well, now you know why it’s important to be thorough. Thankfully, your allergy wasn’t more serious or we may have run into an issue.”

“Well, regardless. Thank you. For helping last night.” I wave my bandaged hand in the air.

“Do you think it needs stitches?”

Thatcher’s eyes soften for a moment.

“No, you’ll be okay, I think. Of course, if you want a second opinion and a real doctor to look at it, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I trust you.” I shake my head and ignore the sizzly feeling in my belly as Thatcher holds my gaze.

“Even still, you may want to get it professionally cleaned and a tetanus shot.” He reaches into a cabinet above his head and pulls out a mug, handing it to me.

“Fresh coffee is in the pot if you want any.”

“Thanks.” I lift the pot and pour myself a mug full of the strong-smelling brew.

“Can I help with anything?” I ask, trying to shake off the awkwardness settling between us.

“Make yourself at home,” he replies, returning his attention to the three skillets on the stovetop.

The sizzle of bacon mixes with the sweet aroma of chocolate chip pancakes and eggs, and I can’t help but feel a cozy sense of belonging as Thatcher flips another pancake with a skilled twist of his wrist.

The kitchen hums with a domestic rhythm that’s foreign yet oddly comforting to me.

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” he adds.

“Daddy! Can I have juice!” Duke calls from the couch.

Biscuit gives a quiet yip of approval from beside his new best friend.

“Sure, buddy,” Thatcher says and starts to set the spatula down.

“I can get it,” I offer and grab a glass from the drying rack beside the sink.

“You sure? ”

“I think I can handle one glass of juice,” I quip, opening the fridge and pulling out the carton of orange juice.

“Says the girl who knocked over an entire tray of champagne glasses,” he retorts with a playful grin.

Maybe it was the delightful smells from the kitchen, or maybe, like me, he senses something unexpectedly warm about this strange, yet familiar domestic scene.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of us are sitting at Thatcher’s small circular table.

“Can you pass the syrup, Allie?” Duke’s voice pulls me from my reverie, his green eyes expectant above the rim of his stack of pancakes.

I reach for the sticky bottle and hand it over, earning me a grin that is pure sunshine.

“Thank you!” he chirps before eyeing the blank TV.

It had been a small argument that Duke wanted the cartoons to be on during breakfast, but Thatcher insisted on turning them off.

Thatcher of course won.

“How does this morning’s chaos compare to your usual Saturday breakfast?” Thatcher asks, spooning a hearty helping of eggs onto his plate, his tone casual but edged with curiosity.

“This is so much better than my usual Pop-Tart and coffee,” I chuckle, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.

“My Saturday mornings often include coffee and reading a book with Biscuit snuggling beside me.”

Hearing his name, Biscuit’s tail swishes against the tiled floor, looking expectantly up at Duke.

“Can I give him some bacon?” Duke begs more than Biscuit.

“Sure,” I say.

“But not too much. And no pancakes for him.”

“Remember,” Thatcher chimes in, “Dogs can’t have chocolate. ”

“I remember!” Duke exclaims and breaks off some bacon, tossing it to Biscuit.

“Your mornings sound more peaceful than ours,” Thatcher muses, passing me the eggs.

“Sometimes too peaceful,” I admit.

“By the way, my landlord messaged me yesterday telling me he was opening up the outdoor space to pets. You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?”

“Huh,” Thatcher says unemotionally.

“Not a thing.”

“Because it seems like an awfully big coincidence that a couple of nights after we were almost ro—” I stop myself short of saying robbed, and glance at Duke who’s watching us with big, eager eyes.

“After you learn my landlord doesn’t let me use the yard,” I correct myself, “Suddenly, he’s had a change of heart.”

“Coincidence, indeed,” Thatcher murmurs, then takes a slow sip of coffee.

“My sister always told me that coincidences don’t really exist.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Thatcher snorts.

“Of course, coincidences exist. They happen every day.”

I shoot him a pointed look.

“ Or do well-meaning friends put in calls to people?”

Thatcher’s fork freezes midway to his mouth.

“Friends?”

I clear my throat.

“Colleagues. Hirees. Whatever.” I wave my hand to try to blow off the intensity of what I said.

Lucky for me, I’m interrupted by Duke abandoning his breakfast to crawl into my lap, a coloring book and crayons in tow.

“Will you color with me, Allie?” he asks, his small hands already flipping to a page with dragons and knights.

“You have to let Allie eat, buddy,” Thatcher says .

But I’m already sliding my plate to the side to make room for Duke’s coloring book.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I say.

“I can still take bites in between coloring this dragon!”

Thatcher watches us for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his features before he masks it with a smirk.

“Looks like you’ve been recruited into the ranks of dragon slayers, Larsen.”

“Seems like it,” I say, smiling up at him.

For an instant, the air between us becomes charged, the molecules buzzing to life with something like possibility, a hint that maybe there was room in this makeshift family for one more.

“You need a sword to be a dragon slayer!” Duke offers.

“Like Daddy! He slays dragons, right, Daddy?”

Thatcher’s jaw tightens briefly, but he nods and forces a smile.

“I used to. All kinds of dragons.”

“He used to protect our country!” Duke says proudly.

“Did your daddy travel all over the world?” I ask, my journalistic senses tingling.

In the wake of our pancake-filled morning, I’d almost forgotten what I was here to do.

Get the inside scoop on this man and his odd matchmaking business that has to be more than meets the eye.

“Uh-huh.” Duke nods fervently.

“He lived in Germany and Africa and Algernon?—”

“Algeria,” Thatcher corrects with a warm smile.

“Right, that’s what I said.”

“Out of everywhere, what was your favorite place you’ve ever lived?” I ask Thatcher.

He reaches over to Duke’s plate and stabs his fork into a bite of pancake, stealing it for himself.

“I’d have to say right here. Charleston, South Carolina is my favorite place I’ve lived.”

“Really?” Duke asks, wide-eyed.

“Really.” Thatcher nods.

“You and I are completely safe. Daddy doesn’t have to live on base anymore. And I get to see you every day. Plus, the weather is beautiful.”

“Well, I can’t argue with any of that,” I say.

Duke hops off my lap and starts tugging on my hand.

“Can I show Ms. Allie my playroom?”

“Oh, Duke, I was going to help your dad with the dishes since he cooked this big breakfast for us?—”

“Nah, you go,” Thatcher says, standing and starting to collect the plates.

“I’ll take care of the dishes.”

“But—” I start.

“Really,” Thatcher interrupts, leaning in to whisper in my ear.

“Besides, I’ve seen the havoc you can wreak on some stemware,” he teases.

I gasp and plant a hand on my hip.

“Hey, come on! That server was standing way too close to me!”

“Sure.” Thatcher sends me a wink as he brings the plates to the sink.

Something about that cheeky grin and the easy way he teased me has my stomach flipping.

Is Thatcher flirting with me?

“Come on!” Duke says, urgently tugging on my non-injured hand.

He pulls me upstairs and toward an open door that sits at the end of the hallway and pushes it wider, Biscuit trotting happily behind us.

Duke’s playroom is far cleaner than I would expect from a five-year-old, one of the results of having a military father, I assume.

I’m surrounded by knights of all shapes and sizes as well as more dragons than I can count.

Stuffed animal dragons, Lego dragons, miniature figurines…

they cover the room along with swords and shields and fake armor.

“Come on,” Duke whispers and shuts the door behind me and Biscuit.

“I want to show you something.”

“What? What do you want to show me?” I lower down to sit on one of the bean bag chairs as Duke opens a trunk in the corner of the room.

Inside, he pulls out a false bottom and brings out what I can only describe as blueprints and some papers.

He runs back to me and lays them all out flat on the floor in front of us.

There’s tons of maps and scribbles in messy crayon handwriting, something that sort of resembles a map of Charleston.

Duke points at his hand-drawn map.

“This is where we live,” he says.

“And this is Daddy’s office.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod, initially trying to appease him.

Until I realize…

I don’t actually know where Thatcher’s office is.

And of course, Duke would.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I lean over to have a closer look at his map.

“This is very intricate.” I point at the café where we met.

“This is where you and I met? Where Daddy got you those cookies, right?”

“Yes!” Duke says.

“And here’s the flower shop,” I say, triangulating the kid’s drawing of Main Street.

I point at the messy building he drew which would be about a block and a half away from the café where we met.

“Which means your dad’s office is over here above the bakery?”

“Yep!” Duke nods excitedly.

“It always smells like bread in there.”

“So, why do you need a map of your city?”

“Daddy says everyone should always have a map of where they are. In case.”

“Got it.” I nod as if I understand anything in that lesson.

I have a map at my disposal.

It’s called Google Maps.

“Daddy doesn’t know this yet, but I heard him talking with Uncle Griff and Uncle Hunter about the Dragon that killed my mommy. ”

My breath turns icy in my lungs.

“A…dragon killed your mom?”

Duke nods.

“They were talking really late one night and I overheard them. They’re trying to find the dragon and apparently they think he’s here in Charleston somewhere. I plan on slaying him with my Daddy. And if the dragon comes back for us, I want to set some booby traps to catch him. See, these are my lasers.”

He pulls out some arrows that he’s added tin foil to and a toy crossbow.

“I plan on setting them up with motion sensors to shoot! I already put some in my tree outside!” He points out the window to where there’s a big winding tree.

“But what if Biscuit or I come over for an unexpected visit and you accidentally shoot us instead? Booby traps can be dangerous.”

“Well, so are dragons!” Duke exclaims through a whisper.

“Hmmm, you’re right about that,” I say.

I’m not sure what killed Duke’s mother, but I don’t doubt that he misunderstood what Thatcher was talking about.

There’s no way a dragon killed his mother.

And to my knowledge, I don’t know any cars that are dragons…

not like a Mustang or a Jaguar.

“Promise me one thing, Duke,” I add after a thought.

“Promise me you won’t try to take on this dragon solo. As you’ve said, they’re very dangerous.”

He contemplates this for a second before he nods.

“You’re right. Unless I have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice. Get help before fighting the dragon. Me, your dad, your uncles…anyone.”

“Okay, I promise.”

I reach over and ruffle his hair.

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a second, I need to use the bathroom.”

“Then you’ll come back and play?” he asks hopefully .

“I promise.”

I head down the hall to where the bathroom is and lock myself inside.

The bathroom mirror reflects a slightly disheveled version of me.

I glance at the stack of folded towels on the counter near the sink and figure they won’t mind if I clean myself up a little.

After a quick shower, I wrap myself in a borrowed towel that smells faintly of sandalwood and soap.

It’s his scent, unmistakably so, and it does strange things to my pulse.

I put the sweatpants and T-shirt back on, then with curiosity nipping at my heels, I tiptoe down the hallway, my fingers trailing along the wall.

To my right is the playroom.

Across from the bathroom is, what I assume is Duke’s bedroom based on the colored drawings of dragons taped to the door.

Next to that is another closed door.

With a glance over each shoulder, I find the cool handle and tug it open, revealing what has to be Thatcher’s home office.

I flinch as it creaks open, revealing a sanctuary of secrets.

Everything I might need for my story.

I can’t resist a quick peek.

The walls are lined with old photos—a younger Thatcher in uniform, medals gleaming against a backdrop of camaraderie and courage.

My gaze lingers on a frame holding a picture of a beautiful woman with kind eyes.

I pick up the frame from his desk and run my fingers over the image of what must be Duke’s mother.

She looks so much like the little boy with his black corkscrew curls and dimpled cheeks.

Is this the woman that Thatcher once loved?

The woman Duke claims was slain by a dragon?

A pang of something like sorrow hits me, and I wonder about the depth of loss behind his stoic exterior.

No, this isn’t about getting to understand Thatcher.

This is about a story.

An article.

I need to dig to get details that I can corroborate for the story.

That’s it.

With a deep breath, I lunge for the drawers, jiggling the brass handle of the top drawer, but it doesn’t budge.

I try the second one, my fingers fumbling with the locked desk drawers, desperate to find any clue about his secretive life.

Still nothing.

I try the final drawer, the one at the bottom and it slides open easily; it’s completely unlocked.

This feels like a setup.

The other two are locked and this one isn’t?

Surely there won’t be anything of value in here.

Thatcher isn’t someone who suffers fools.

My eyes land on a newspaper clipping with a smiling photo of Duke’s mother dead center.

I look down at the framed photo still in my hand to confirm it’s her.

Same black curly hair.

Same wide, toothy grin.

The headline robs me of my breath.

Deadly Car Wreck Leaves Two Dead.

I fumble for my phone and take a picture of the paper—the Virginia Tribune —along with the date at the top.

More than four and a half years ago.

With my access to databases, I can no doubt find this article to read on my own time.

As I’m shutting the drawer closed once more, a tiny voice startles me from behind, causing me to jump and nearly drop the picture frame in my trembling hands.

“What are you looking for?” Duke’s voice is soft but carries enough suspicion that I know I need a damn good excuse for being in here.

I spin around, still clutching the picture of his mom in one hand.

“I was just um, just... I thought this was my guest room and accidentally came in.”

Duke gives me a skeptical look.

“Then why are you looking at my mommy’s picture?”

“Oh. Well, I saw it and after hearing you talk about her, I was curious what she looked like. And then I started...looking for some paper. To draw on,” I stammer, trying to come up with an excuse that would appease a five-year-old.

Duke frowns, clearly not fully believing me.

“My dad always says that curiosity kills the cat.”

“Hm, good thing I’m a dog person, then.”

This earns me a little smile as I set the framed photo of Duke’s mother back down on the desk where I’m pretty sure it had been.

“But you’re right,” I say, as Duke takes my hand and leads us out of the office.

“Let’s go back and play, okay?”

I close the door behind us and we’re about to cross the threshold of the playroom as Thatcher rounds the corner at the top of the stairs.

I freeze even though rationally I know I’m not caught.

Not officially at least.

There’s still something in his eyes.

He knows .

I don’t know how he knows, but he does.

This man can read me almost as well as my sister can and holy hell is that unnerving.

“We’re slaying dragons,” I blurt out nervously.

Thatcher regards me carefully, his eyes drifting for a sliver of a second to his office door and the breath stalls in my lungs.

“Well, good. Duke could use a sidekick in his dragon-slaying adventures.”

“I’m surprised you’re not his sidekick,” I say.

Thatcher’s mouth kicks up briefly, but Duke responds before he can.

“That’s because Daddy’s the King! The King never slays the dragon himself. He has his knights do it for him!”

As Thatcher chuckles at Duke’s declaration, I can feel the tension in my body starting to ease.

Maybe I overreacted to his presence in the hallway after all.

Maybe he’s not suspicious of me.

“Well, in that case, I’m honored to be your knight, Duke,” I say, ruffling the boy’s hair playfully.

Thatcher watches us for a moment, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“You know what? I think it’s time for the King to lead his knights into battle for a change, don’t you think?” he declares, picking up a discarded toy sword at the top of the stairs and following us into the playroom.

Once inside the playroom, Thatcher slowly bends to pick up the other sword and hands it to me slowly.

“Ready to slay some dragons, Larsen?”

I nod.

“Oh…I’m ready.”