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Thatcher

I knew someone was following me from the moment I stepped out into the brisk city air.

When you’re in my line of work, you learn not to ignore that prickling sensation on the back of your neck.

I’ve had eyes on me enough times to know the difference between paranoia and the real deal.

One surreptitious glance over my shoulder confirms that I’m right.

Only it doesn’t appear to be some insidious threat lurking in the shadows; it’s a pair of round hazel, curious eyes that are trained on me.

“Okay,” I mutter under my breath, tightening my grip on my to-go paper coffee cup, “time to face the music.”

I make a sharp turn down an alleyway, my boots echoing off the graffiti-stained walls.

There’s a method to this madness—alleyways are good for confrontations, fewer prying eyes.

I position myself around the corner behind a dumpster and wait, counting the seconds.

Sure enough, the soft patter of footsteps crescendos as she rounds the bend, almost on cue .

I pull my gun from my waistband, ensuring the safety is still on and raise it chest height as I step out from the shadows.

“Why are you following me?”

I cringe as she spins to face me, her pouty, berry-shaded lips parted in a gasp.

“Oh my lord! That’s a gun !” she cries with the timbre of a kindergarten teacher.

“Wow, look at you, Detective Sunshine. So tell me…are you lost or just really into following people?” My tone’s casual, but my stance is anything but.

I hold firm with the gun raised, waiting for her to stumble over some lie.

But she stops short, blinking up at me with an expression that’s part surprise, part chagrin.

“Following you?” Her voice has that high-pitched quality of someone caught red-handed.

She laughs—a nervous kind of laugh—and then looks away, searching for an escape route that isn’t there.

“No, no, I...I was...”

“Let’s cut to the chase.” I step closer and see her swallow hard.

Good.

Keep her on her toes.

“You’ve been tailing me since we both exited the coffee shop. What’s your game?”

She tugs at the strap of her bag, clearly buying time, and I can tell she’s not used to being cornered.

Most folks aren’t.

Then again, I’ve learned not to trust anyone.

Especially some cute brunette playing innocent.

I’ve seen firsthand how the doe-eyed Bambi can be trained to lie through their teeth and turn into the deadliest assassin in the room in a blink of those mascara-laden eyes.

I’m absolutely not falling for that act.

“Who are you?” I demand, not unkindly, but firmly enough to show I mean business.

I can see the wheels turning behind those wide eyes, the cogs of her brain grinding as she sizes up whether to run or spill as she stares down the barrel of my gun .

“Okay, okay...” She exhales sharply, a half-defeated chuckle escaping her lips.

“This is going to sound strange, but?—”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and I notice for the first time how the setting sunlight catches in her wavy hair, turning it into liquid amber.

There’s this playful glint in her hazel eyes that makes them shimmer like two drops of top-shelf whiskey.

The sundress she’s wearing clings to her petite frame in a way that’s casual but deliberate, like a flag staked on the territory of her curves.

“I’m waiting.”

“Look,” she starts, tipping her head back to meet my gaze with a confidence that’s almost disarming.

“I saw you back there, in the café. You were like some kind of cabernet Cupid, helping that girl with the spilled wine connect with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” She caught me red-handed.

That in itself isn’t anything new.

People overhear me from time to time helping out dates in my matchmaking business.

But I’m shockingly good at blending in and being forgettable.

Usually .

A perk of my previous life as a Navy SEAL.

“Absolutely.” She nods, her voice laced with mischief.

“And here’s the kicker—I need your help, too.”

“You need my help?” I can’t help the half laugh that escapes me.

“With what, exactly?”

“Finding my soulmate.” Her declaration is bold, and she delivers it with a dramatic flourish of her hand, like a magician revealing a particularly impressive trick.

“Your soulmate,” I echo flatly, not sure whether to be amused or concerned for her mental health.

But as ridiculous as the notion of soulmates is, there’s something about the way she says it—with absolute conviction—that hooks me.

“Yep!” She pops the p as if it’s the most natural request in the world.

“I’m assuming you’re some sort of matchmaker on a mission based on what I saw back there. Which you’ve clearly got a knack for, and let’s face it, I could use all the help I can get.” Her laugh is self-deprecating but charming, and it suddenly feels like I’m being pulled into a scene from one of those rom-coms my late wife used to force me to watch with her.

The memory slams into me like a bullet to the chest, fast and hard and just as painful.

“What makes you think I’m a matchmaker?”

I don’t tell her that she’s dead-on.

I retired from my military career after my wife passed and I was left with a baby boy to care for.

Suddenly, being in the line of fire on deadly missions wasn’t as appealing when a helpless baby was relying on me to come home every night.

And lucky for me, my best friends and ex-special forces team joined me in my matchmaking business when their contracts were up, too.

Now, we run our little empire with the same precision as we would a mission, using our military skills to help our clients find The One .

And it turns out a little military strategy goes a long way.

And I’m proud to say that I have a one hundred percent success rate.

But even so, anonymity is key to every successful mission.

This petite woman making me while on one of my client’s dates isn’t only bad for business.

It means I’m fucking slipping.

“Right,” I say, clearing my throat.

“ Because finding soulmates is obviously in my job description. Do I look like a fucking matchmaker to you?” My sarcasm doesn’t faze her; instead, she takes a step closer, her playful smile never wavering.

“You don’t. Which is why you’d be the perfect person to help me. I’m guessing you know exactly what a man wants…and how to help me get it.” She tilts her head, the early evening sunlight dancing across her features, and for a moment, I forget why I was so suspicious of her in the first place.

“Admit it,” she continues.

“You’re some sort of undercover dating guru, aren’t you?”

“What’s your name?” I ask, lowering the gun a bit, but still not taking my finger off the safety.

I don’t think this girl is here to kill me, but I don’t trust easily.

Or quickly.

Not when you’ve made as many enemies as I have.

“Allie. Allie Larsen.”

“Let me guess, Allie—Allie Larsen. You’re a schoolteacher? Love children. Want to be married before you’re thirty with a house with a white picket fence, two-point-five children, and a little ankle-biting dog?”

Her mouth presses into a firm line and a small wrinkle appears between her eyes.

“Excuse me?”

Ohhhh, I’ve made her mad.

I make a show of a fake shiver.

“I think it just got colder in this alley.”

Her little fists ball at her sides.

“I do love children but I am not a teacher—I’m a food reviewer. And I’ve already got the ankle-biting dog and the home without the help of a man, thank you very much.”

“Great. Then you shouldn’t need me or my services.”

“But I don’t have the soulmate!” She stomps her little kitten-heeled foot against the cement .

Dammit.

This girl isn’t going to give up easily.

I scrub a hand down my face, the stubble scratching against my palm with a sound like distant static.

Why am I avoiding taking this gig?

Sure, it’s a little unorthodox how she found me.

Usually, we get most of our clients through ads and referrals.

But she’s still a potential paying client and if I do a background check on her, I can quickly determine if she’s a safe person to work with.

Plus, she’s standing here with those earnest eyes that are way too big for her face, and I can’t just dismiss her.

I’m not sure anyone can say no to her.

“Look, Allie,” I start, keeping my voice even, “I’m not some kind of Cupid-for-hire. I can’t perform miracles. And I sure as hell don’t believe in soulmates.”

She doesn’t bat an eyelash, but simply cocks her head to the side defensively.

“Are you saying it would take a miracle for me to meet someone special?”

“Hardly. I’m saying that the way I work is all about tactics and precision. You have to agree to a background check and be open to my…rather unique methods.”

Her face lights up like I’ve given her a golden ticket and I swear her smile could power half the city.

“That sounds like a yes.”

“It’s a maybe,” I concede.

“If your background check pans out and I see us as a good working fit.”

Still beaming, she gathers her dark wavy hair over one shoulder.

“Oh, we will be. I’m very easy to work with. I think it was fate that I saw you in that café!”

The word hangs between us, and I almost laugh out loud.

Fate .

And soulmates.

Riiiiiight.

This girl is everything I’m not.

“But…” I raise a finger before she can get any bright id eas.

“We do this my way.”

She snorts with a roll of her eyes.

“Well, my way certainly hasn’t worked.”

I slide my gun back into the holster at my waistband.

I’m ninety-nine percent sure this girl isn’t packing.

Hell, the only place a gun could be hidden is in her laptop bag and even then, I’d have my gun out and the trigger pulled before she could even find it within the heaping mess of that bag.

“Great,” I mutter, already regretting this.

She squeals and bounces on her toes, clapping her hands like the captain of the pep squad.

Then, she launches at me so fast, I barely have time to react.

My hand flies back to the handle of my gun, only, she isn’t attacking me.

She’s…

she’s hugging me.

What.

The.

Fuck.

I stand there, stiff as a board, my hand still clutching my gun in the holster because I have no idea what else to touch or grab onto.

“Oh, you’re not going to regret this! Mr…uh…”

I already fucking regret this.

She pulls back from the hug, her hands still on my shoulders.

“Mr…?” she asks again.

“Just call me Thatcher.” I step back from her, sliding out of reach of those warm, soft hands.

“We start tomorrow. Meet me here, three p.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”

She blinks, looking around the gritty alley.

“You want to meet here ? In this alley?”

“That’s right. From here I’ll bring you to our offices.”

She wets her lips and for the first time since I initially caught her in her lie, she appears nervous.

“No offense, Thatcher…but um, I don’t know your last name. Or your business name. And you just pulled a gun on me. I don’t know that I feel entirely comfortable meeting you tomorrow in an abandoned alley. ”

Good girl.

“Newsflash, Allie. You’re in an abandoned alley with me right now. And I still have my gun.”

Her weight shifts anxiously from foot to foot and for a brief moment, I think she’s going to back out on me.

“I’ll meet you at the coffee shop,” she offers.

I smother my smirk.

“Very well. We can meet at the café and you can sign the non-disclosure paperwork there before we go to my office.”

“Non-disclosure?”

I nod.

“I run a tight operation that requires anonymity to do so properly. An NDA is necessary. We’ll also discuss my fee and the contracts.”

“Any chance you could send them to me tonight? I like to take my time reading over legal things and I don’t want to be rushed over coffee.”

I narrow my eyes at Allie.

Something feels off.

She’s saying all the right things, but for a girl that was so desperate to hire me for my services five minutes ago, she’s catching a surprising case of cold feet.

“Very well.”

She pulls a rumpled napkin and a pen out of her bag and scribbles down her email address before handing it to me.

“Thank you,” she says.

“I’ll see you at three p.m. tomorrow!”

She turns her back on me—rookie mistake—and walks out of the alley with an alluring sway of her hips.

What am I doing?

I haven’t noticed a woman’s hips since…

since…

I groan and crack my neck from side to side.

Why the hell did I agree to this?

Maybe it’s the challenge in her gaze or the odd curiosity she sparks in me.

Or the fact that I can’t seem to say no when it really counts .

As I watch her bounce away, part of me is already preparing for the worst.

Because the last thing I need is more chaos in my life, and Allie Larsen looks like she carries it in spades.

But another part, a part I’m not quite ready to acknowledge, is looking forward to whatever madness comes next.