Page 14

Allie

Nervously, I enter my office building after receiving an email from Soleil telling me to meet her here at 10 a.

m.

this morning.

Sharp.

Soleil never requests in person meetings with me.

At worst, I get a phone call from her.

At best, we correspond mostly via email.

“Hey! Ms. Larsen!” a young voice pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts that I’m being fired and when I look up, I see the teenage boy who tried to rob Thatcher and me standing outside the building.

His bike is perched next to him and he has a parcel tucked under his arm.

“Logan, right?”

“Yeah! Good memory.” His cheeks tinge a little pink.

“I wanted to say thanks again for giving me this chance.”

“So it’s going well? Being our bike messenger?”

He nods.

“Your boss has already given me more gigs. More responsibility.”

“That’s amazing, Logan. Congratulations. ”

“Thanks. Well…I, um, I better go. Need to get this across town in thirty minutes.”

“Don’t let me keep you!” I step aside as he straps a beat-up looking helmet to his chin and throws his leg over the bicycle, taking off into traffic.

I watch him pedal away, something akin to pride warming my chest.

I take a deep breath and push through the heavy glass doors to head up to Soleil’s office where she’s already waiting for me, clacking at her keyboard from behind her desk.

Somehow, she spots me before I’m barely in the doorway and beckons me inside with a crook of her finger.

“Allie! Sit.”

I do what she says and take a seat across from her in the empty armchair.

Before I can say hello, she spins her iPad around and shows me the images I tried to take at the gala.

“What the hell are these?”

I grimace, looking at the blurry images that are nearly indecipherable.

I can kind of make out Thatcher’s general shape in the corner of the picture, but his tuxedo combined with his dark hair and the way my hand moved as I took the shot created a blurry mess.

“Okay, so the lighting was bad and my hand might have been a little shaky,” I start, my fingers playing an anxious rhythm on the table, betraying my nonchalance as she clicks through the measly four photographs I emailed to her earlier today.

Soleil’s brow furrows as she peers down at the gala’s blurry evidence before her.

“Allie, these look like they were taken during an earthquake.” She looks up, eyes filled with a mix of exasperation and amusement.

“Or maybe the socialites were just dancing really, really fast?” I offer with a hopeful grin, knowing full well that my attempt to capture the essence of the high-society event has fallen flat.

Soleil leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, yet a smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

“High-quality photos, Allie. That’s what brings an article to life,” she says, her voice firm but not unkind.

“These look like abstract art.”

I nod, feeling the weight of her expectations settle on my shoulders, even as my mind buzzes with potential solutions.

“I get it, high-quality or go home. No more action shots unless the action is standing still.” My comment lands with a soft chuckle from Soleil, which feels like encouragement enough.

“Exactly,” Soleil agrees, her tone softening.

“You have a real talent for storytelling. We just need pictures that don’t require a magnifying glass and some imagination to interpret.”

“Okay, but…”

Soleil’s brows lift.

She’s not used to hearing people argue with her.

Especially not when they’re as low on the hierarchy as me.

“But?”

“But I signed a contract stating pretty explicitly no pictures. I don’t know how we’re supposed to get high-quality images of these matchmaking dates while protecting the faces of everyone around me, Thatcher included.”

Soleil’s mouth presses into a firm line.

“You’re not wrong,” she says quietly, tapping her pen to her bottom lip in thought.

“Initially, I thought it’d be enough to blur everyone’s faces, but that’s not really a compelling visual story either. What’s the point in having you take crystal clear, high-quality images if we’re going to blur all the faces. No…what we need is your face in the photographs since it’s the only one we can show.”

“But how am I supposed to take photos of myself on these dates?” I ask, worrying my bottom lip.

“You need to enlist help. A friend. Confidant. Someone who can fly under the radar and capture some good images from afar while you’re on these dates without rousing suspicion from Thatcher.”

“Understood,” I reply with a nod, already going through the short list of people I trust to orchestrate a photo redemption.

Abby.

She’s really the only person I fully trust.

Plus, she already knows about the article.

It’d be the easiest to explain if we get caught.

“I’ll fix this, Soleil. I promise.”

She gives me a long look, seeming to measure the sincerity of my pledge.

Then, nodding, she waves a hand toward the bustling room beyond.

“Go on, then. Work your magic, Larsen. And I still expect a thousand words on that new fusion place by tomorrow.”

“Consider it done.”

Evening drapes the city in a cloak of twinkling stars and neon buzz.

When I walk into the jazz-infused sanctuary of La Cucina di Lucia on Tuesday night, it’s like stepping into a different world.

A world where clinking glasses orchestrate a rhythmic backdrop to the soft crooning of old-world Italian music, setting my heart on a jittery dance of its own.

“Kenneth,” I greet when I see him already seated at a table.

He rises from his seat wearing a well-tailored suit that hugs his frame and a smile that could light the dimmest corner of this place .

“Hi, Allie. You look great,” he says, pulling out a chair for me with old-school charm.

“Thanks,” I reply, settling into the seat and giving a silent thank you to Abby for insisting on making me borrow her red dress.

“Don’t forget to repay the compliment,” Thatcher’s voice is already in my ear and I cringe.

“You clean up pretty nice yourself,” I say to Kenneth, feeling a little bad that it didn’t occur to me to compliment him .

Unfortunately, my mind is on one man and one man only: Thatcher.

I’ve been thinking nonstop about him since our self-defense lesson.

The way we stood so close.

The way I could have sworn I felt him smell my hair.

Goose bumps rise on my arms and I brush them away with the palm of my hand.

“Only on special occasions,” Kenneth quips, raising an eyebrow playfully as if this date were an event worth marking on calendars.

“Compliment something specific next time,” Thatcher scolds me.

“Just like women, men like to feel as though you really see them and notice the small things. Like his cuff links.”

Kenneth didn’t seem to have a problem with my compliment , I think to myself.

The night’s only begun and Thatcher is already getting on my last nerve.

“I especially like your cuff links,” I begin, attempting casualness as I scan the room for any sign of Abby.

“They’re very…um…fancy.”

His smile widens and he straightens the sleeve of his suit, primping.

“Thanks so much. I got them when I was in London last year at an estate auction.

“Mmm,” I say with a nod, peeking over Kenneth’s shoulder for where my sister might be.

Instead, I catch a glimpse of Thatcher sitting in the farthest back corner.

Where the hell is Abby?

As per our plan, she was supposed to arrive twenty minutes before me.

I had called ahead to request specific tables for each of us.

Being a food reviewer does have its benefits now and then, I suppose.

My eyes skate over couples nestled in shadowed booths, friends laughing over shared secrets, but I don’t see that sister of mine snapping sneaky photos anywhere.

Finally, I spot her over Kenneth’s shoulder.

On the other side of the restaurant—nowhere near the table I requested.

I see the crown of her head peeking out from behind her menu.

“Are you looking for someone?” Kenneth’s question pulls me back, his gaze curious.

“Uh, no. Just admiring the decor,” I fib, thankful for the low lighting as I feel my cheeks warm.

“I love what they’ve done with the place.”

“Did they renovate recently?” he asks.

“Last year, actually,” I say, perking up.

“The owners retired and their daughter took over. She revamped the menu, still using her mother’s family recipes, but she wanted it to have a more trendy, contemporary feel to it.”

“Mission accomplished,” Kenneth says.

“I’ve never come in here because I thought it was sort of a hole-in-the-wall. I had no idea how beautiful it was.”

“Nicely done with the banter,” Thatcher compliments me.

“That almost felt natural.”

Oh how I wish I could reply back to that smug bastard.

Instead, I clear my throat as our server comes by and sets down an olive plate, then holds out a bottle of red wine to Kenneth to approve .

After his nod, the waiter opens the bottle and pours him the first taste.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Kenneth says.

“I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of red for us as well as the warm rosemary tapenade.”

It takes every ounce of my effort not to groan.

I hate when men order on my behalf.

Even when it’s only wine.

What if I wanted to order fish for dinner and now I’m stuck with this heavy Nero d’Avola?

Plus, there’s this patriarchal assumption that comes along with ordering for a woman that implies I don’t know enough about wine to order correctly.

In actuality, I’ve been aching to order the mushroom pappardelle.

It’s all I’ve thought about since I invited Kenneth here for dinner.

It’s my absolute favorite dish, even though it’s not usually as talked about.

True foodies know it’s the secret weapon here at the restaurant, far better than any bolognese or lasagna.

I force a smile.

“As long as I get to choose the next bottle,” I say.

“Easy, Allie,” Thatcher warns in my ear.

“I’m sure he didn’t intend to insult you by ordering.” I’m impressed by how easily he can read me.

Or maybe I’m just that transparent.

I look at the server as he pours us each a glass of wine.

“Could we also get the baked crespelle as a starter?”

“Of course,” the server says with a nod.

“What’s that?” Kenneth asks.

“It’s their specialty here,” I explain.

“It’s hard to describe…sort of like an Italian enchilada. Trust me. It’s to die for.”

“What if I don’t eat something that’s in it? ”

I shrug and take a slow sip of my wine.

“That didn’t seem like such an issue when you ordered before I arrived.”

“Allie…” Thatcher’s voice rumbles another warning.

But quickly, Kenneth chuckles and nods in agreement.

“Well, touché. You’re right about that. Do you like olives and red wine?”

I reach over and spread some tapenade on focaccia, taking a bite.

“Luckily for you, I do.”

“You made your point,” Thatcher growls.

“Now move on.”

“Do you know how much the gala made this weekend?” I ask.

“I don’t have the final numbers yet,” Kenneth says, taking a small bite of tapenade himself.

“But it sounds as though it was very successful. “Four of the dogs were adopted as of this morning.

”

“Oh, that’s amazing!”

“Thank God,” Kenneth muses.

“Those events can be fun, but I always end up feeling guilty about the ones I can’t take home.”

“Me too,” I confess.

“If it were up to me, I’d adopt them all and live in a fluffy chaos.”

“Sounds...hectic,” he laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Life’s more fun with a bit of chaos,” I shoot back, a grin spreading on my face.

“Chaos is one word for it,” Thatcher’s voice crackles discreetly in my ear.

“Try not to let Biscuit chew through Kenneth’s shoes if you take him home tonight, okay?”

I snort.

“As if. Biscuit is the perfect gentleman,” I defend, then freeze at Kenneth’s puzzled look staring back at me.

“What’s that?” he asks .

Dammit.

Stupid Thatcher yapping in my ear.

“Uhhhh… Luckily, Biscuit is a perfect gentleman and not at all chaotic,” I say, trying to salvage the conversation.

“Biscuit is your dog?” Kenneth asks, intrigued now.

“Yes, he’s my little sidekick. He was very sad he couldn’t join us tonight, but I promised to bring him some cannoli back.” I pull out my phone, showing him a picture of Biscuit’s scruffy mug.

“Adorable.” Kenneth nods approvingly.

“Seems he’s got his owner’s mischievous streak.”

“Guilty as charged,” I admit, my heartbeat finally slowing to a manageable pace.

This isn’t so bad.

Hell, I think I’m actually doing a pretty good job on this date.

And Kenneth is kind of charming.

Maybe on top of getting the investigative reporter job, I’ll also get a boyfriend out of it, too.

“Stay on track,” Thatcher’s voice is another gentle nudge.

“Admittedly, the olive tapenade is delicious,” I admit as I spoon another generous dollop onto some bread and pop it into my mouth with an enthusiastic nod.

I finish chewing, savoring the rich, salty blend.

Then give him a disarming smile.

“So tell me a little about what you do,” I say.

Kenneth’s eyes suddenly dart to my mouth, then away—his grin faltering.

The jazzy bassline in the background seems to skip a beat as he leans forward, with the most delicate tact.

“Ah, you’ve got a little...right there.” He gestures vaguely towards his own pearly whites.

I freeze, the tapenade suddenly tasting less like heaven and more like mortification.

My tongue darts behind my closed lips, fishing for the rogue bits of olive from between my teeth.

But it’s like trying to perform dental surgery with a blunt instrument.

“Is it gone?” I ask, attempting casualness as I dab at my teeth with a napkin, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

“Almost,” Kenneth chuckles, kind enough to look amused rather than repulsed.

“You’ve got this energy about you—all enthusiasm, even for tapenade.”

“Enthusiasm or bad luck with appetizers,” I mumble.

I lift the knife, using the reflection to help me free the last offender from my incisors.

“Bad luck makes for good stories,” Thatcher chimes in through the earpiece, a note of mirth in his voice that suggests he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Anyway…I’d tell you more about what I do, but it’s really boring.”

A few tables over, movement catches my eye as I see Abby hunched behind her menu like a spy in a B-movie.

It’s weird enough that she’s been here for twenty minutes and is still studying the menu like it’s a Tolstoy novel.

Her hand is uncharacteristically shaky as she grips her phone, the lens of the camera peering out from between laminated pages of entrees and desserts.

She glances around furtively; her blue eyes, wide pools of anxiety, reflecting the flickering candlelight from her table.

I clear my throat and feign massive interest in his supposedly boring job.

“I’m sure it’s not!”

“Well, as I mentioned before, I’m a hedge fund manager,” he says and my eyes immediately glaze over as he begins talking about his day-to-day.

Come on, Abby, you’ve watched enough detective shows to nail this , I think, hoping the universe will carry my silent pep talk to her.

She’s about as conspicuous as an elephant hiding behind a lamppost, but somehow, diners chatter on, blissfully unaware of her covert operation.

“So that’s about as exciting as it gets in my office,” Kenneth says, laughing.

I feel like a deer in the headlights as I realize I have no idea what joke he just made, but I laugh brightly right along with him.

From behind him, there’s a little crash at Abby’s table as she knocks over the small vase of flowers.

Kenneth’s brow furrows as he turns around, his gaze locking onto Abby sitting behind him.

Any potential stealth she may have had is out the window; she’s practically wearing the menu like a tinfoil hat, her camera phone aimed at us.

“Is that woman taking pictures of us?” Kenneth whispers, alarm tinting his voice with an edge I haven’t heard from him before.

“Oh…um, no. No, she’s probably just admiring the ambiance,” I offer and whip around to give Abby a quick, scathing glare.

But even to my own ears, it sounds about as convincing as a dog claiming it hadn’t eaten the homework.

Abby quickly diverts her phone camera, taking a picture of the mural behind the bar, like she has some kind of telepathy and knows what I was saying.

“What is he talking about?” Thatcher asks.

“Who’s taking photos of you?”

Kenneth shakes his head, a determined set to his jaw.

“No, I’m sure of it. She’s photographing us. Don’t worry, I’m going to call the manager over and have the police handle this.” He reaches for his phone, fingers poised to summon our server.

“The police? That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?” My heart skips a beat, then gallops like Biscuit after a squirrel.

Abby in handcuffs?

Not on my watch.

My mind races faster than my pulse, darting through every conceivable excuse.

“It’s not,” Thatcher says, agreeing with Kenneth.

“Not if you have a stalker. Is it that boy from the other night? That teenager who robbed you?—”

“No,” I blurt out.

“Kenneth, wait!” I reach out and clasp his hand in a move that’s more about restraint than romance.

“Let’s not overreact. That’s… that’s actually my sister. She’s um...uh, she’s doing me a favor.”

“Your sister is on our date? Doing you…a favor?” Kenneth blinks, confusion etched across his face.

“Yep! You see, my family has this wacky tradition. We document everything. Birthdays, barbecues, awkward teenage phases—you name it. So I thought, ‘Why not immortalize our first date?’ I mean, imagine showing our grandkids how their gramps wooed grams with charm and a side of tapenade.”

“Oh my God,” Thatcher groans.

“That is your sister.”

Kenneth’s mouth opens and closes, his expression hovering somewhere between bewilderment and the dawning realization that perhaps he’s agreed to dinner with a lunatic.

“Our...grandkids?”

“Too much?” I wince, offering a sheepish grin.

“Okay, maybe just future us, laughing over the memory of tonight. Or tomorrow morning when you brag to your buddies about the quirky girl who made you smile.”

“Right...” Kenneth manages, his phone now forgotten in his hand.

“Quirky. That’s one word for it.”

“Quirky, right.” I flash what I hope is my most disarming smile while Kenneth’s gaze darts between me and the suspiciously camera-cozy menu across the room.

He clears his throat, shifting in his seat like he just sat on a cactus .

“Look, Allie,” he begins, the creases in his forehead deepening.

“You’re...fun. A lot of fun. But this is...well, it’s a bit intense for a first date.”

“Intense?” I echo, feeling the weight of the word squash my playful bravado flat.

“I guess I can be a little enthusiastic sometimes.”

“Enthusiastic,” he repeats with a hesitant nod, rising from his chair.

“Right. So, I think I’m going to...call it a night. Early meeting tomorrow, you know?”

Yep.

That tracks.

I can’t say I blame him.

I think if I found a guy photographing my first date, talking about us being grandma and grandpa, I’d have an “early meeting” too.

“Of course,” I chirp, overcompensating with a laugh that sounds more hyena than human.

Kenneth offers a final tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

With an awkward wave, he launches to his feet—and that’s when things go from sitcom to slapstick real quick.

“Kenneth, look out—” I start, but it’s too late.

In his dash for escape, Kenneth collides with a solid wall of man clad in black pants and a gray, soft-looking henley shirt: Thatcher.

They both grunt, a tangle of limbs and apologies as Kenneth rebounds off Thatcher’s broad chest.

“Sorry, man. Didn’t see you ther—” Kenneth’s mumble cuts off as recognition flickers in his eyes.

“Wait…you’re the guy from the gala,” Kenneth says, regaining his composure.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Life’s full of surprises,” Thatcher says dryly, and his gaze slides to me for a heartbeat before returning to Kenneth.

“Surprises or psychos,” Kenneth adds stiffly, then sidesteps Thatcher with the agility of someone dodging a speeding bike.

“Seriously, what’s going on here?”

“Nothing!” I squeak.

But before I can come up with a decent excuse, Kenneth puts his hands up and backs away from both of us.

“You know what? You can have her, buddy. I’m out of here.” Without another word, he makes a beeline for the exit, disappearing into the night.

“Smooth,” I mutter to myself, sinking back into my chair as the jazz band picked up a tune that sounded suspiciously like “Another One Bites the Dust.”

Thatcher slides into Kenneth’s abandoned chair.

“Care to explain why your sister is here taking photos? When it explicitly says in your contract no one is supposed to know about what we’re doing here?”

“Ummmm…” My heart hammers a frantic beat within my chest.

There’s no mistaking the edge in his gaze—the sharpness can only mean trouble.

Big trouble.

“Hi, Thatcher?” Abby chimes in before I can fumble an excuse.

She tugs a chair over from another table and sits between us.

“Abby,” I warn, giving her a look that screams don’t , but my sister barrels on like a freight train powered by righteousness.

“This is my fault. Allie and I always cook dinners together on Tuesday night. So when she told me she had to cancel tonight because she had ‘tons of work’”—she air-quotes with such exaggerated sarcasm, it’s a miracle her fingers don’t cramp—“I knew she was lying. I followed her here and took those photos to prove to her I knew she was lying to me. I didn’t expect to catch her on a date.” Abby then pauses, tilting her head in feigned confusion.

“Actually…wait. What are you doing here?”

Hot damn.

My sister deserves a freaking Academy Award.

Thatcher looks slowly between us.

“Matchmaking,” he states flatly after a heavy sigh.

“I’m here on Allie’s date with her because I’m her matchmaker.”

“You’re a matchmaker ?” Abby repeats incredulously.

“I thought you were like, a Green Beret or something way more badass.”

He exhales a quick chuckle.

“Nope. Just your run-of-the-mill ol’ matchmaker.”

Abby looks at me, blinking.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“Um…well?—”

“That’s my fault, too,” Thatcher says.

“All our clients sign NDAs to protect the company and our clients’ anonymity. So…” Thatcher continues, looking back over to me, “the whole thing you told Kenneth about documenting the date for posterity was made up?”

When I don’t respond immediately, Abby’s eyes go momentarily wide for a second, encouraging me.

“Yep,” I bluff.

“When Kenneth said he was going to call the police, I jumped on the first lie I could think of to protect her.”

Abby shrugs, her poker face better than any bluff I can muster.

“Allie made that up to cover for me.”

“Is that so?” Thatcher’s eyes flicked between us, searching for the telltale signs of deceit.

But thank goodness for Abby’s stoic nurse face—it was like trying to read a brick wall.

“Why wouldn’t you just say that was your sister and you don’t know why she’s taking pictures?” Thatcher presses further.

“I don’t know.” I shrug.

“I kind of panicked. ”

“Well…you can’t do that anymore, okay?” he finally says, pointing a finger at Abby.

“No more pictures. No more following us.”

“Sure. Yeah,” Abby agrees and almost immediately, I notice the mischievous glint in her eyes.

“It’s a shame for this food to go to waste. Appetizers. A bottle of wine?—”

I narrow my eyes at my sister.

“I’m sure it won’t go to waste?—”

“You two should enjoy dinner—” Thatcher starts to stand, offering Abby his seat, but she clamps her hand to his shoulder, shoving him back down.

“No! You stay,” she says.

“Abby,” I start to say, but she quickly cuts me off.

“I’m just getting off a fourteen-hour shift at the hospital and more than anything, I need sleep. But I want to make sure my sister won’t be eating alone, you know?”

“Oh my God,” I mutter and bury my face in my hands.

This is humiliating.

The Larsen girls are not subtle, apparently.

“Abby, I’ll be fine eating alone.” I don’t add the fact that I do it all the time for the newspaper reviews.

Thatcher turns his bemused smirk toward me with an eyebrow lifted.

“I have no other plans for tonight.”

Before I can answer, Abby claps her hands together.

“Great! It’s settled.” Yanking a twenty from her wallet, she hands it to me.

“That’s for the wine I had at my table. I’ll have them move my bill to this check. Okay, toodles!” she blurts out, hardly taking a breath between words.

With his elbow on the table, Thatcher holds out his hand to me.

I stare blankly at it, then slap his palm like I’m giving him five.

He doesn’t move except for the corners of his mouth twitching upward ever so slightly, amusement glinting in his green eyes.

“Your earpiece,” he says.

“Not a whole lot of need for it with me sitting directly across from you.”

“Oh. Ohhhh . Right.” I’m such a dumbass.

I pull the earpiece from my ear and drop it into his palm.

Thatcher clears his throat and opens the menu, pursuing it.

While he studies the entrees, I study him, my heartbeat quickening as his tongue darts out absently as he’s thinking.

I quickly avert my eyes, staring back down at the menu I’ve long since memorized and ignoring the fluttery things happening in my belly.

He’s way too handsome for his own good.

“I think I’m going to try the mushroom pappardelle,” Thatcher says, lowering his menu.

My gaze jerks back to him in shock.

“What?”

“The pappardelle,” he repeats.

“I know…” He rolls his eyes.

“Most people go for the?—”

“Bolognese,” I finish for him.

“But the pappardelle is underrated. Especially here.”

His smile widens.

“I forgot I’m dining with a foodie. Actually…” He pauses to nudge his menu aside as our server approaches.

“What am I thinking? I’m going to let her order for me.”

Well, shit.

I think I just fell in love.