Page 26 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Allie

“No, no, no, no!” I murmur to myself and search the complicated buttons, trying to figure out how to open the damn panic room door.

My attention is divided between the tech in front of me and the video feed of Thatcher in his office.

He tucks Biscuit into his desk and I’m momentarily relieved that my dog will hopefully be safe from Drakon.

But that doesn’t save Thatcher.

Cooped up in the panic room, my heart’s doing this funny little pirouette, an awkward dance of terror mixed with something else—something warm, fluttery, and painfully sweet.

Love.

It smacks into me like a wrecking ball.

I’m in love with Thatcher Bryant.

The realization crashes over me as the monitors flicker with images too grim for any rom-com: Thatcher being manhandled by the man with the ring I had a brief interaction with at the bathhouse, the very antithesis of Prince Charming .

Thatcher starts to willingly walk toward them, his hands up in surrender.

“No,” I whisper.

“Fight, dammit.”

But I know he won’t fight them.

Because Thatcher’s goal will always be other people’s safety first.

He wouldn’t want to risk them finding me hiding in here.

I growl in frustration and shove my hair out of my face, turning back to the electronic keypad in front of me.

“Come on, Allie, you can figure this out,” I chide myself, fingers flying over the buttons that might as well be hieroglyphics.

My usual playful banter is replaced by terse, whispered commands, each one met with frustrating silence from the unyielding door.

“Open!” I hiss into the voice modulator, my voice laced with desperation.

A robotic voice answers me: Threat detected beyond the walls .

Dammit.

I should have guessed that Thatcher would set this up to automatically lock someone inside if there’s another human out there.

It would be the only way to protect his son, come to think about it.

There’s nothing to do, but wait until there’s no one left in the office, then open the door.

My gaze darts between the blinking buttons and the screen where Thatcher’s tall, muscular frame is grabbed by that Ivan guy.

A surge of protectiveness wells up in me, fierce and unexpected.

He always seemed so untouchable; I forget sometimes that even heroes have their Achilles’ heel.

In this case, me .

The screen shows them dragging Thatcher out of the broken front door, and my heart hammers against my chest, urging me to do something—anything.

I pound the panel in frustration and once again say: Open!

”

And lo and behold, the same robotic voice comes on saying: Threat no longer detected .

The door finally swings open with a hiss.

“About time!” I exclaim, my adrenaline spiking as I step out of the high-tech fortress and push the false bookshelf out of the way.

First thing’s first, I rush to the drawer where Thatcher had tucked Biscuit and open it.

Biscuit’s tiny tail wags in the cramped space beneath the desk where Thatcher had stashed him, his furry face all wide-eyed and trusting.

He hasn’t a damn clue that we’re all still very much in danger.

Scooping up my brave little sidekick, I channel every action movie cliché I can muster.

Because now comes the hard part.

It’s time to save Thatcher…

and nothing in my suburban bookworm, food critic life has prepared me for this.

But love, that sneaky, powerful thing, makes you do crazy stuff.

Like believe you can rescue a man who’s practically a one-man army.

Thatcher’s voice echoes in my head about staying calm and using your head, not just your fists.

Okay, Thatcher, let’s see if your crash course in butt-kicking pays off.

“Time to be a hero, Biscuit,” I whisper, tucking him under one arm as we scramble out of the office and down the stairs.

“Let’s go find our guy.”

The warm, humid air outside is a slap of reality.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, Thatcher and I were in bliss, finding solace in each other’s arms.

Now here I am, playing damsel turned savior.

I whip around at the sound of screeching wheels just in time to see a generic black SUV turn right at the light ahead.

There’s no time for hesitation.

I need wheels.

And right there, like a beacon of hope, is a bicycle leaning against a lamppost, its unsuspecting owner unlocking it, while scrolling absently on her phone.

I reach into my purse and pull out my gun-shaped lighter.

“Freeze! Police!” I blurt out, my fingers curled around the handle.

The bewildered woman before me does a double take from me to her bike and back again.

“What?”

“Police matters! I need to confiscate your vehicle!”

“You mean…my bike? You want to take my bike?”

“Yes. Exactly!”

“Are you...serious?” she stammers, eyeing my fake gun in one outstretched hand and my fluffy dog in the other.

“Very!” I snap, trying to sound more cop-like and less like the panicked girl I am.

“I need your bike now! It’s an emergency. I’ll bring it back right here to this lamppost, I promise.”

She hesitates, clearly torn between common sense and the wild conviction in my eyes.

“Do you have like…a badge or something?” she asks, skepticism laced with a touch of fear.

“Um, of course I have a badge. I’m a cop.” But I don’t move to get it.

“Dammit, lady, we’re losing precious time here! Your bike will be here tomorrow morning. I swear.”

I move to take a step toward her, but she gasps and runs away from me with a shriek.

I don’t have time to reflect on that too much.

I’ll deal with the consequences of stealing her bike later.

I waste no time strapping Biscuit into the front basket, securing him with my scarf.

“Hold on tight, buddy,” I say, and pedal like mad in the direction of Thatcher’s unceremonious exit.

Who needs a knight in shining armor when you’ve got a journalist on a stolen bike?

Watch out, Drakon.

You’ve got Allie Larsen on your tail now, and she’s got love—and a terrier—in her corner.

I take the right turn where I first saw the SUV go, but that’s where my lead stops.

I slow down a little, scanning the road for any evidence that may help lead me to where they’re going.

Then I spot it—a glint of red amidst the gravel.

The broken taillight, scattered like breadcrumbs for me to follow.

Just like he taught me to do if I’m ever put in a trunk.

“Thatcher, you clever man,” I mutter under my breath, a hint of a smile fighting through the worry.

He had once showed me how to leave a trail, a way to say “I’m here” without words.

And now, those lessons are more than playful sparring—they are lifelines.

As I weave through the urban maze, Thatcher’s belongings seem to call out to me.

A shoe abandoned in the middle of the street, a single sock, his belt—each one a silent ally in my quest.

But then, nothing.

I’ve been bicycling for about fifteen minutes and there’s no more signs, no more clues; the city swallows up any trace of him.

My heart plummets as I pull the bike over to the sidewalk.

Biscuit whines, sensing my despair as I pull out my phone and the business card Thatcher gave me.

With trembling hands, I dial Griffin’s number.

“This is Griffin,” he answers and I realize that he doesn’t know—wouldn’t know—my number.

“Griffin! It’s Allie. I don’t…I don’t know what to do.” I can barely get the words out, I’m so choked with tears.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is suddenly somber.

Gone is the fun-loving, humorous guy that joined us for dinner a few weeks ago.

As quickly as I can, I fill Griffin in on everything.

The bathhouse I went to, the meeting in Soleil’s office.

The panic room, and Drakon and Ivan, the Enforcer taking Thatcher…

as well as the trail he left me.

“Dammit, Allie! What were you thinking trying to follow them?” Griffin’s anger seeps through the line, but there’s an undercurrent of fear for both me and his friend.

“I was thinking I had to act fast,” I plead, sniffling and wiping away stubborn tears that refuse to stop.

“Okay, okay. Stay right there. Hunter and I are coming now,” Griffin demands, shifting into mission mode.

“Is there anything else we need to know?”

Before I can answer, another notification pops up on my phone, jolting me.

Biscuit’s AirTag location has changed.

But that’s impossible—he’s still curled up in the basket of the bicycle, his brown eyes fixed on me.

Confused, I lean closer to inspect his collar and notice the AirTag is missing.

Realization dawns on me.

That sneaky, brilliant man!

Thatcher must have slipped it off during the chaos.

“Thatcher took Biscuit’s AirTag,” I blurt out, excitement breaking through the hopelessness.

“I’ve got a location, Griffin! I can find him!”

“Oh thank God,” Griffin exhales.

“Listen to me, Allie. Do not move. Hunter and I are skilled at this. We hunted men for a living?—”

“I’ll text you the pin!”

“Are you listening to me?! Wait for backup, Allie! Don’t go storming in there—” Griffin begins, his voice stern and commanding.

Too late.

I’ve already hung up, adrenaline surging.

Sorry, Griffin, but waiting isn’t part of today’s plan.

I jump back onto the bike, Biscuit’s soft fur brushing against my hand as I secure him once more.

We’re a team, a dynamic duo with love on our side and a villain to chase down.

The AirTag beacon feels like a lighthouse in the fog, guiding me straight to Thatcher.

Pedals spinning beneath me, I vow to save him, take down the bad guys, and maybe—if we’re lucky—Thatcher and I can nab that happily-ever-after ending he doesn’t believe he deserves.