Page 16

Allie

We squelch our way across the polished floors, leaving a trail of pond water and loose leaves in our wake.

Biscuit, the fluffy instigator of this whole mess, starts running around the office, completely unaware of the drama he caused.

I examine Thatcher carefully as he crosses the third-floor office above the bakery to a wardrobe, grabbing a couple of towels from inside as well as some spare clothes.

I shiver as the air conditioner kicks on, blowing frigid air across my wet skin.

Something happened back there.

A shift, though I can’t quite put my finger on what exactly changed.

But if I wasn’t mistaken, Thatcher was…

tender.

And for the briefest moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.

I wouldn’t have stopped him if he had.

And that’s the problem.

I want him—this gruff, unreadable, maddeningly attractive man who treats vulnerability like it’s a contagious disease.

He’s got walls thicker than a Cold War bunker, and somehow, instead of running the other way like any sane woman would, I’m over here wondering what it would take to climb them.

But we can’t date.

I’m one article away from my dream job…

and that article entirely hinges upon breaking his NDA.

Or at the very least, towing the line.

Not to mention the man doesn’t exactly radiate “emotionally available.” He radiates…

broody cryptid with a soft spot for five-year-old boys, stray dogs, and stubborn women.

And unfortunately, I’m starting to think, despite his protests, I might be his type—and worse, he might be mine.

“Thatcher,” I start.

“Bathroom’s this way,” he interrupts with a grunt, but I catch the hint of a smirk as he gestures for me to follow him.

“There’s a shower if you want to use it.”

The door swings open to reveal a small, but clean bathroom, equipped with a shower stall.

Thatcher hands me the two towels and the folded clothes, which are admittedly significantly less damp-smelling than what I’m currently sporting.

“What about you?”

He shrugs.

“I can shower after you.”

“You don’t mind watching Biscuit while I clean up?”

He eyes my dog who innocently looks up at Thatcher from across the room.

“Oh, I’ll keep an eye on him, all right.”

Biscuit whimpers as if he understands the meaning behind Thatcher’s words and I clamp a hand to my saturated hip.

“Hey, be nice to my baby!”

Thatcher grunts.

“Fine. I’m pretty sure Griff keeps Milk-Bones in his desk.”

“Thank you.” I shut the door behind me and peel the soggy yoga pants off my hips, hopping awkwardly on one foot and then the other to kick my clothes off.

The wet clothes all land with a slap to the floor and I leave them discarded there, turning on the shower so the water can heat up.

There’s nothing worse than being damp and chilly.

I step into the shower and pull the curtain closed, sighing into the steamy heat.

I don’t really need to wash myself.

Sure, the pond water wasn’t exactly clean , but I’m also not filthy or anything.

Even still, the hot shower feels amazing.

I grab the body wash and squirt some into my palm, inhaling the spicy scent that smells exactly like Thatcher.

A knock at the bathroom door makes me flinch and the dollop of body wash falls to the floor of the shower as I gasp.

“Allie,” Thatcher calls through the door.

“I can throw your clothes into the dryer if you want.”

“No!” I squeak, my voice shrill, like I was caught sniffing panties…

even though all I was doing was smelling his body wash.

“No? Are you sure?”

“Um…I mean, I’ll bring them out and pop them in the dryer when I’m done!”

There is no way in a frozen tundra of hell that I can let that man into this bathroom while I’m naked—even if it is behind a shower curtain.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind?—”

“I’m sure!”

I exhale when he finally leaves it be and walks away from the door.

I suds up my body quickly, not bothering to wash my hair.

Then I quickly towel off and pull Thatcher’s sweatpants and T-shirt on, feeling extremely exposed without having any underwear.

Dressed in his clothes, I feel like a kid playing dress-up, the shirt hanging past my hips, sleeves rolled up to my shoulders.

There’s no denying the comfort, though—the fabric is warm and smells faintly of cedarwood and lemongrass.

I open the bathroom door, emerging into Thatcher’s office clutching my soggy clothes in a bundle.

Thatcher looks up from his desk, jumping the slightest bit, and tucks a file he’d been looking at in the top drawer.

His piercing green eyes meet mine while a happy, tail-wagging Biscuit gives a little yip from where he’s sitting on Thatcher’s lap.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

I shift on my feet as his eyes trail over the sight of me swimming in his oversized clothing.

He gives Biscuit a little pat to the head, then sets him back down on the floor.

“Little guy wouldn’t stop whining once you shut the door to the bathroom.”

I smother my smile.

“He’s definitely a mama’s boy.”

“I can see that.” His eyes fall to my still wet clothes in my hands.

“Here, let me take those.” He rises and strides over, lifting the soggy pile from my grasp.

His fingers brush mine, sending a spark through my skin and I’m acutely aware of how his sweatpants sag around my hips.

I hastily pull my hand back.

“Thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Thatcher’s gaze flicks down briefly before he turns and crosses the room to open a small closet door, revealing a compact washer-dryer unit inside.

“This should only take twenty minutes or so to dry them,” he explains, carefully setting my clothes inside.

There’s something intimate in the way he handles my clothes, his large hands moving with unexpected care.

I nod, hugging my arms around myself as another awkward silence settles between us .

Thatcher clears his throat, running a hand through his still pond-damp hair.

“Well, I’m going to grab a quick shower myself. Help yourself to anything you need. There’s water and snacks in the mini fridge. And a kettle over there where you can make either tea or coffee. It’s instant and tastes like shit, but me and the guys are kind of used to getting by with just the necessities.”

Such a military thing to say.

I nod, tugging self-consciously at the hem of his T-shirt.

He brushes past me towards the bathroom, and I catch a whiff of his woodsy scent.

There’s remnants of the shower wash that he probably already used this morning, but something more.

Something entirely and innately Thatcher.

Before I can respond, he disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

I let out a deep breath.

Being alone with Thatcher, wearing his clothes, feels strangely intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I take a moment to survey the room from where I stand—a stark contrast to the chaos of our current state.

It’s all sharp angles and meticulous order.

Then, my eyes land on his desk.

That same framed picture of his late wife, the one I saw at his house, tugs at my curiosity.

I wait until I hear the water turn on, then rush toward his desk.

Even though snooping in his office makes my stomach turn with guilt, I have no choice if I want to turn in this story.

This might be my only opportunity to be alone in his office.

I grab the stack of neatly organized case files sitting on the corner of his desk and quickly sift through them.

Most of them simply look like matchmaking clients.

Random headshots of women and a couple men stapled to the exact questionnaire I had to fill out.

I restack them meticulously in the same order, place them back where they were sitting on the corner, and flop down into his chair.

Biscuit gives me a little yip.

“Don’t judge me,” I whisper.

“You know as well as I do that we need this promotion. It’s everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

Biscuit snorts and turns around to drink from a water bowl Thatcher must have put out for him.

With a sigh, I almost give up when the ajar top drawer of Thatcher’s desk catches my eye.

Whatever he’d been looking at when I came out of the bathroom was stuffed into this drawer.

Quickly, too.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I listen for the water, still going strong in the bathroom.

“Quick look,” I reason, “just a quick look.” My fingers brush against the cool metal of the drawer handle, a shiver of adrenaline firing through me.

The drawer slides open with a hush, as if it’s in on the secret too.

There, staring back at me is a file marked Drakon .

I grab my phone and swipe it open.

“Curiosity, don’t you dare kill this cat,” I whisper to myself.

My heart does this funny little skip-jump routine, pounding against my ribs so loud I swear it could echo through the office.

The name Drakon stares up at me from the manila folder, and I can almost hear Biscuit’s mischievous bark egging me on.

Inside, papers bristling with codes and names beg for my eyes to scan them, for my brain to piece together the puzzle.

This is a far cry from the matchmaking files left on top of his desk.

“Thatcher Bryant, what are you hiding?” I murmur, the thrill of the chase setting my pulse racing.

Just one more minute , I promise myself, quickly snapping pictures of as many pages of the file as I can.

I won’t publish these photos in the story I write.

But there’s no time to soak in the details right now.

The photos are just so I can read these later , I reason with myself.

It’s my first real lead on what Thatcher Bryant truly does with his skill set.

Because let’s be honest…

these men are not simply running a matchmaking business.

There’s no way in a frozen hell that’s how they’re spending their time.

At least not all their time.

Click, click, click .

The camera shutter sound seemed deafening in the quiet room, though I know it’s all in my head.

My hands shake ever so slightly from the electric thrill of what I’m doing.

Discovery has always been my kind of adrenaline rush, and this.

.

.

well, this is like finding the mother lode.

From behind the closed bathroom door, the shower water turns off, launching the office into a sudden silence.

The sudden lack of sound snaps me out of my detective trance.

Panicking, I close the folder and shove the desk drawer closed, launching to my feet and flying across the room to where the little kitchen area is.

I grab the electric kettle and fill it with water, a picture of innocence—or so I hope.

“What’d you find?” Thatcher’s voice calls from the doorway.

My heart lodges in my throat.

I’m caught.

I don’t know how he caught me, but he did.

“What?” I croak turn to face him.

Sweet ever-loving Jesus.

At the sight of him, I’m rendered speechless.

He’s standing there in a pair of gray sweatpants…

and nothing else.

His T-shirt is slung casually over his shoulder as he starts walking toward me.

He crosses into the little kitchen area to join me as he tugs his shirt overhead.

Then, pointing to the tea and coffee, he asks, “What’d you find to drink?”

“Oh! Um…” I grab the first tea I see and hold it up, flashing him my best nothing-to-see-here smile, hoping it doesn’t quiver at the edges.

“Ginger tea,” I chirp, my fingers clenching the tea tightly in an attempt to hide their slight tremble.

Dammit.

I hate ginger.

Now I have to drink a whole damn mug of this crap all because I panicked and didn’t take a second to grab the peppermint tea instead.

There’s a pause, just a beat too long, where his green eyes lock onto mine.

Does he see through my act?

If he truly is a special ops agent, then shouldn’t the soldier in him recognize the covert mission I’d just completed?

Clearing his throat, the corners of his mouth twitch and his brows dip with skepticism.

“I thought you hated ginger?”

I swallow, my throat going dry.

“How do you know that?”

“You filled it out as part of your intake form.” His tone is gruff, but the slight softness remains, a subtle shift that suggests the thawing of winter ice.

“Right. Yes. I do hate ginger.”

“Soooo…why are you drinking ginger tea?”

“I force it down when I think I might get sick. You know…with being shoved into a pond.”

His eyes narrow briefly.

“Shoved is a bit extreme, wouldn’t you say?”

“Is it?” The water begins to boil, so I take it off the cradle and pour the hot water into a mug.

“What would you call it?” I ask.

“I’d say we both fell into the pond. ”

I snort and grab a second mug for Thatcher.

“I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t barreled into me.”

“But you might have slammed into a tree or something worse.”

I stifle my smile as I hold out the various teas for Thatcher to choose one.

Annoyingly, he picks peppermint and I’m left again to sit in the discomfort of my poor choices.

“Very well,” I say.

“We fell into the pond. Together. Forcefully.”

I rip open my tea and dip it into the hot water while Thatcher does the same with his peppermint sachet.

Already, the smell of ginger wafting out of my mug has my stomach turning.

Thatcher takes my mug and hands me his.

“Don’t drink the ginger tea,” he says quietly.

“I can’t stand to see you make that face for a whole beverage.”

I laugh, but I don’t fight him on the peppermint tea, taking a sip.

“I didn’t realize my face was that hideous.” Then, teasing, I smack the back of my hand against Thatcher’s arm.

“Maybe that’s why we’re having such a hard time matching me up with my soulmate.”

Thatcher stares into the ginger tea he traded with me.

“Nothing in this world makes sense if I can’t find a match for Allie Larsen.”

The compliment hits me like an arrow to the heart.

I stare at him, speechless, because there it is again.

That faint feeling that Thatcher Bryant is maybe interested in me.

Is it possible that this gruff, hardened man is…

is hitting on me?

Or am I imagining it?

All this talk of soulmates and happily ever afters has possibly infiltrated my brain.

Like method acting…

but instead, method investigative reporting.

Yeah, that’s what’s happening here .

But then that I notice how closely we’re standing.

I see the five-o’clock shadow peppering his jaw.

The faint scar at his chin.

And as he glances up at me from over the rim of his mug, the light catches the little flecks of gold spattered in his green eyes.

His gaze drops to my mouth once more and I inhale a sharp breath as he adds, “And your face is far from hideous. But I think you know that.”

Setting his tea down, he reaches up, gently tucking a stray hair behind my ear.

The pads of his fingers are extra warm from the mug and my heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

He leans in slowly, eyes searching mine for any hesitation.

Finding none, his lips meet mine in a soft, tentative kiss.

The rush of heat and electricity is instantaneous.

My eyes flutter closed as I lean into him, my free hand coming to rest on his muscular chest.

The kiss deepens, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer.

I can feel the longing and desire that’s been simmering under the surface for so long finally reaching a boil.

Just then, the office door bursts open and we spring apart.

Duke comes barreling in, followed closely by Griffin.

“Dad, I had the best day!” Duke shouts excitedly, bounding into the office, an unstoppable force of childlike joy that swirls around the room like a mini tornado.

Thatcher clears his throat and steps away from me, though his eyes linger.

I quickly busy myself, grabbing a packet of sugar and dumping it into my tea, hoping the flush in my cheeks isn’t too obvious.

“Special delivery,” Griffin announces with a theatrical flare that could brighten the gloomiest day.

But his steps slow as he approaches us and Griffin gives us a knowing look, one eyebrow raised.

Thankfully, he says nothing, even though I’m sure my cheeks are ten shades of scarlet.

“Allie!” Duke shrieks in delight when he sees me and throws himself into my legs, hugging me.

“I didn’t know you’d be here!”

From a few feet away, Biscuit gives a little bark and I’m practically forgotten when Duke sees my dog.

He slides across the floor to pet Biscuit.

“I didn’t either,” Griffin says, folding his arms.

His eyes trail over my oversized T-shirt and sweatpants.

“And with both of you in our spare office clothing, too. Huh .”

“It’s not how it looks,” I say quickly at the exact same time Thatcher blurts out, “There was a mishap in the park.”

“Sure, sure,” Griffin says with a playful grin.

“I fell in the pond!” I say, my voice a little too shrill.

A little too loud.

“We both did,” Thatcher adds.

A moment of recognition glides over Griffin’s face.

“Is that what that smell is? I figured it was the dog.”

“Hey,” I say, planting my hands to my hips.

“Biscuit and I both take offense to that.”

“Look, Allie! Look what I got!” Duke’s voice cuts through the lingering awkwardness, as he charges back towards me, holding out a toy airplane, its wings glinting silver even under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“We played a trivia game in school today and I won!”

“Whoa, that’s so cool!” I say and crouch to greet him at eye level.

“Isn’t it? Vroom!” He zooms the toy inches from my nose, complete with sound effects that would make any pilot proud.

I can’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with Duke’s giggles.

“I bet a plane would help fight the dragon, huh?”

Duke rolls his eyes at me.

“You can’t fight a dragon with a plane!”

“Why not?”

“Everyone knows you have to fight a dragon with swords and lasers.”

I thump the heel of my hand to my forehead.

“Right. Of course. Silly me. I don’t know as much about dragons as you do.”

The file I found in Thatcher’s desk tickles my memory.

Drakon.

Dragon.

Could there be something here?

Is it possible that Duke was onto something when he said he needs to protect his family from the dragon?

“How fast can this thing fly?” I ask, my fingers brushing against the sleek plastic.

Duke runs circles around me, proudly performing a loop-de-loop for my benefit.

“Super fast! Faster than Daddy’s car!” He beams, his eyes wide and sparkling with the kind of innocent wonder that makes everything else seem trivial.

“Wow, that’s pretty fast.” I play along.

From my spot kneeling on the floor, I glance up at Thatcher, our eyes locking for a heartbeat.

He leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest as he observes me with Duke.

He’s not sporting his usual scowl, but he’s also not exactly smiling, either.

It isn’t the usual scrutiny or the faintest hint of a challenge; it’s softer, tinged with an unfamiliar warmth that sends a zing of electricity through my nerves.

His kid is a mini cyclone of enthusiasm, and I’m right there in the eye of it, caught up in his energy.

Griffin, ever the human equivalent of a mood light, seems to sense the thick, foggy tension.

He sidles up to Thatcher, slinging an arm around his shoulder with the ease of someone who’s dodged more than a few bullets with the guy.

“Thatch, I think you’ve got competition,” Griffin quips, nodding towards Duke and me.

“Your son’s about to recruit Allie for his elite platoon.”

“Is that so?” Thatcher’s voice rumbles, a smirk finally breaking through that stoic exterior.

“Is this true, Private Duke?” Thatcher asks, his voice taking on a playful but commanding tone.

Duke scrambles to his feet with a mock salute, the toy airplane tapping against his brow.

“At ease, team,” Thatcher says, saluting back.

“Copy that, Captain Daddy!”

The phrase “Captain Daddy” does some things to me that frankly, it shouldn’t.

Especially not in front of this man’s child.

I turn to Thatcher and smile.

“Captain? I thought you preferred sir?”

With his hands clasped behind his back, he paces a few steps toward me.

“Either will do.” But he doesn’t fool me, I can see he’s fighting his smile as he leans in closer to me to whisper, “If we’re getting technical, I don’t have privates within my platoon either.”

“So, what’s our mission, Captain Daddy? ” I ask, unable to help myself with a smirk.

Griffin hides his laugh into his fist by coughing and the corner of Thatcher’s mouth twitches, a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

“Operation Cookie Jar!” Duke replies with a conspiratorial whisper.

“Ah, our Private Duke is a covert ops specialist, I see,” I manage to say.

“Absolutely,” Thatcher affirms, throwing me a wink.

Then he turns to give Duke a mock stern look, though the twinkle in his eye betrays his amusement.

“Now, Duke, you know the rules about sweets before dinner.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Duke chants with another salute.

“The rule is no sweets before dinner unless it’s a mission!”

“And any good mission needs a good reason. What is the reason behind Mission Cookie Jar, Private?”

Duke’s face falls into an exaggerated pout, his lower lip jutting out comically as he gives his dad the most pathetic puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Um…well, a cookie will make me happy. And I won trivia in school today?—”

“Nuh-uh,” Thatcher tuts.

“You already got the toy plane for that win. What other reason do you have for the mission?”

“Er…” Duke nibbles at his bottom lip, trying hard to think of something.

“Oh! I know!” I squeal and bend to whisper into Duke’s ear.

His face lights up in an adorably irresistible way and he repeats almost word for word the answer I gave him.

“Because it’s important to keep up morale within the platoon! That’s why Operation Cookie Jar is so important!”

I smile proudly as Thatcher shakes his head with a chuckle.

“All right, Private. I’ll ignore the fact that you got some intel from behind enemy lines?—”

“Enemy lines!” I shriek.

“I thought I was being brought in as one of the team!”

“Oh, my team knows not to interrupt Captain Daddy,” he says with a growl in his voice that makes my knees a little weak.

For the millionth time in the last ten minutes, I feel the heat go to my cheeks.

“As I was saying. Operation Cookie Jar is a go…for one cookie. Do we understand each other, Private?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Duke says then whips around pumping a triumphant fist in the air.

“Thanks, Allie! You’re the best!” He throws his arms around me in an enthusiastic hug that makes my heart leap.

I sigh, hugging him back.

“Happy to help, kiddo.”

Duke rushes for the counter, climbing on top where a cookie jar is sitting on a shelf.

Thatcher makes his way over to me and lowers his voice as we watch Duke take his time picking out the perfect chocolate chip cookie.

“You could join us for dinner tonight,” Thatcher says, and even though his voice is quiet, the question startles me.

“You’re inviting me for dinner?”

“It’s not much. I have chicken and broccoli in the Crock-Pot and a salad.”

My heart melts a little at the vulnerability in Thatcher’s voice.

It’s faint…

but there.

And something tells me he doesn’t allow that sort of vulnerability very often.

The buzzer on the dryer pierces the quiet office.

I glance down at the oversized shirt I’m wearing—its fabric whispering across my skin, a tangible reminder of the unpredictable turns my investigation—and my heart—has taken.

The Drakon file, tucked safely back in its drawer, contains secrets I’m determined to unravel.

But the emotions swirling inside me are more enigmatic, harder to decode than any classified document.

I want to say yes to dinner with Thatcher.

So badly.

Maybe more than anything in this world.

Or rather, almost more than anything.

The only thing I want more than Thatcher right now…

is this promotion.

And something tells me as soon as Thatcher finds out what I’m doing, he’s not going to be very forgiving of my own little covert ops mission here.

“I…I can’t tonight,” I say.

“I have to work.” It’s not even a lie.

I do have to work.

And I can’t stomach another night of snooping around Thatcher’s house.

“Rain check?”

He nods with a smile, but this one doesn’t crinkle his eyes in the same way.

“I’ll grab your clothes from the dryer.”

I brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear, allowing myself one last glance across the room where we kissed.

This office feels charged with the echo of our laughter and the ghost of that kiss.

Operation Become-an-Investigative-Journalist is still a go.

But Operation What’s-Happening-Between-Me-and-Thatcher…

that’s a whole different kind of mission.

One that I’m not sure either of us is equipped to handle.