Page 3

Allie

Tucking a stray wavy lock behind my ear, I pace the length of my tiny living room, phone pressed to my cheek.

The worn floorboards creak beneath my steps—a familiar symphony to my bouts of restless energy.

As soon as the NDA landed in my inbox from Thatcher, I printed it out—an archaic habit, yeah.

But holding documents in my hand helps me thoroughly read through them better.

Just call me a boomer.

I clutch the NDA with my free hand, its edges already crinkling from my anxious grip.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” I say to Soleil, squinting at the legalese that might as well have been ancient hieroglyphs.

“I can still write about this guy and his matchmaking shenanigans as long as I don’t use his name? Like, ‘A certain tall, dark, and brooding matchmaker who shall not be named’ kind of deal?”

Flipping through the pages of the NDA, I try to squash the flutter of panic in my chest.

The legalese swims before my eyes, a murky sea of hereby and wherein .

But somewhere in that ocean of jargon, loopholes are winking at me like buried treasure.

My boss’s voice crackles through the speaker, a mix of impatience and amusement.

“Exactly, Allie. Keep it vague. No names, no places. Not only for the matchmaker, but for the men you go on dates with during this undercover time, even if we get their permission. If we get photos, we can blur the faces of everyone but you.”

My brow scrunches.

“That’s going to make this article a lot harder.”

Soleil snorts.

“Welcome to investigative journalism, kid. Think of it as writing blindfolded with one hand tied behind your back.”

“Sounds like a weird party trick, but hey, I’m game if you are.” I chuckle, trying to ease the tension knotting in my stomach.

This story is my one shot, my leap from small-time food-reviewing fluff pieces to something with actual meat on it.

But dancing around this NDA is going to make it a whole helluva lot more difficult.

“Discretion is key,” she reminds me, her voice taking on the stern tone she reserves for moments of “serious journalism talk.” “We can’t afford a lawsuit, Allie. Are you sure you can handle this without stepping on any legal landmines?”

“Absolutely,” I assure her, perhaps more convincingly than I feel.

“Thatcher may have a face that could launch a thousand ships, but I’ve got a pen that’ll dance circles around his NDA.”

“Good,” she replies, a hint of a smile in her voice now.

“Keep it tight, Larsen. And keep me posted.”

“Will do, Chief.” I end the call and toss the phone onto the coffee table.

Exhaling a relieved breath, I collapse back onto my couch.

Biscuit, my fluffy partner in crime, bounds over with a tennis ball, his tail wagging like a miniature propeller.

“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, buddy,” I say, scratching behind his ears.

He responds by dropping the ball and giving me an enthusiastic yip, blissfully unaware of the journalistic minefield we’re about to navigate.

“Thatcher, matchmaker extraordinaire,” I mutter to myself, the corners of my mouth tugging upward.

“You’ve met your match in more ways than one.”

“Any culinary preferences tonight, or am I left to freestyle?” my big sister, Abby calls to me, poking her head out from the kitchen.

“We can make Caesar salad with spaghetti and meatballs. Or Caesar salad and gnocchi…” There’s a pause as she disappears back into the kitchen and I hear the refrigerator open and close with the clatter of condiments on my shelves.

“…also with meatballs. Seriously, do you have any protein other than frozen meatballs?”

I grimace at her.

“I’m a food reviewer. I spend ninety percent of my time eating out.”

“I know. And as the big sister to your single ass, I enjoy reaping the benefits of being your plus-one to those free dinners.”

“Hey, your ass is single, too!” I call back, but she’s already ducked back into the kitchen, ignoring me.

Giving Biscuit a final scratch to his chin, I stand and drop the document on top of my laptop.

It’s time to regroup and strategize.

With a sigh, I leave my work and worries in the living room and enter the kitchen, dropping into a seat at the small island.

Spinning to face me, Abby holds up a box of uncooked noodles and the frozen bag of gnocchi.

“So what’s it going to be? Spaghetti or gnocchi?”

“Surprise me,” I answer, my mind still locked on the document waiting for me in the other room.

“But no anchovies on the Caesar, please.”

“Barbarian,” she teases.

Then with a snort, she grabs a couple cloves of garlic, crushing them with the flat side of a knife.

“Besides, you barely have any protein in this house. As if I could even find anchovies in your fridge.”

She tosses the chopped garlic into a hot frying pan with oil and it sizzles to life.

“Are you sure you want to give up your cushy gig as a food critic? People would kill to have your job.”

I snort and give my sister a look.

“They wouldn’t if they knew how little it pays.” I earn what’s barely the equivalent to a part-time job writing my reviews.

The scent of garlic, basil, and tomatoes fills the air as Abby covers the pan and lowers the heat.

Then she sidles up beside me, two glasses of red wine in hand.

As she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder, the silky strands catch the golden hues of the setting sun streaming through the window.

Even though we’re sisters, we look nothing alike.

A product of having a tall, dark, and handsome Italian father and a Scandinavian blonde-haired, blue-eyed mother.

Unfortunately for me, Abby won the genetic lottery and got all of my mom’s delicate beauty-queen features.

And I got the nondescript mousy brown hair and hazel eyes from Dad.

Abby hands me one of the glasses.

“Here’s to threading the eye of the needle while wearing boxing gloves,” my sister says, repeating one of our dad’s old mantras that has followed us through adulthood .

I clink my glass against hers.

We both take a sip, the spiced, rich flavor grounding me back to the moment.

“Your editor really thinks you can pull this off despite an NDA?” Abby asks, her voice the soothing hum of a well-tuned violin despite the doubt she’s casting on my chosen career.

I shrug.

“Hell, I’m not even sure I can pull this off. I’ve never written a serious piece for them before…let alone an investigative one undercover.”

“Is this dangerous? I mean, this is the same guy who welcomed you with a glock instead of a handshake,” she points out, arching an elegant eyebrow as she leans against the back of the chair.

I’m shaking my head out of instinct.

“He wasn’t pulling the gun for any reason but self-preservation,” I say, recalling his assessing bright green eyes.

“He’s not looking to hurt me. He was looking to protect himself.”

“But from what?”

“That’s what I’m going to figure out! And it’s precisely why this story is gold,” I counter, matching her serious gaze with the steel of my own resolve.

“Thatcher No-Last-Name isn’t your garden-variety Cupid. There’s a story behind those guarded green eyes, and I’m going to unearth it.”

“Okay, Nancy Drew, but don’t forget he’s more 007 than Prince Charming,” Abby retorts, pausing to take one more swallow of wine before standing to check on the gnocchi.

“And if he’s willing to pull a gun to protect himself…don’t you think he might also be willing to use that gun to protect his secrets?”

That same anxiety as before ripples in my empty belly.

I hadn’t really thought of that.

Unable to sit still any longer, I hop up and grab the bag of Caesar salad from the fridge, dumping it into a large bowl.

“I’ll be careful,” I say as I toss the lettuce, hoping those three words are enough to reassure my sister.

She levels me with another look as she grabs two plates from my cabinet.

“You promise?”

“I promise. I won’t use any names. No specifics that can lock in on who he is. Just pure, unadulterated storytelling about the facts and circumstances surrounding his business.”

Abby’s lips quirk into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her concern hangs in the air, but she knows better than anyone that I’ve been waiting my entire adult life for this opportunity.

I’m ready to tango with the trickiest of clauses.

“You still have that personal alarm I gave you?”

I reach down into my purse and pull out my keychain, equipped with the smallest, but loudest little alarm one could ever carry.

“Got it right here!”

She sighs and wipes her hand on her scrubs.

“I guess people had their reservations about me when I said I wanted to be a trauma nurse.”

“Exactly! And who stood up for you when Mom spent every night saying the rosary, convinced some junkie was going to stab you in the ER?”

Abby rolls her eyes.

“Easy, Allie. I was agreeing with you,” she says while plating the gnocchi with a flourish that could rival our nonna’s.

She pulls a small, wrapped present from her own purse and slides it across the table toward me.

“What’s this?”

She shrugs.

“Before I knew you were doing this whole matchmaker thing, I saw it and thought of you.”

I open the box and gasp at the tiniest vibrator I’ve ever seen.

It’s about the size of a tube of lipstick.

“Abby! ”

She grins at me and turns to pull a couple of serving spoons out of my top drawer.

“What? You said it’s been a while. I figured you might need a little action on the go, too. It’s called a pocket rocket for a reason.”

She takes the vibrator from me and drops it into my purse.

With a roll of my eyes, I take the two plates of gnocchi from her while she turns to grab some bowls for the salad.

Then while her back is turned to me, I grab a meatball from my plate and toss it down to Biscuit with a wink.

“ But, ” Abby says with a pointedness that makes my spine go straight.

“If you get into any trouble with this story and need help, I’m here.”

“Noted.” I grin, saluting her with my wineglass before taking another sip.

She takes her seat across from me and we both swallow our first bites of her delicious dinner, the aroma filling the space between us—a reminder that some risks are worth taking, especially when they come with a side of home-cooked support.

“So…” she says.

“Tell me about this guy. Is he cute?”

I snort at the adjective.

“Thatcher is anything but cute . He’s…mysterious. Six feet of pure solid muscle and imposing presence. I think his jaw alone could slice a freaking jugular. But that’s what’s going to make my piece stand out. He’s an enigma wrapped in a riddle, sprinkled with mystery dust.”

“Sounds like a sexy riddle to me,” Abby mutters, stifling her smile.

“Weren’t you just telling me to be cautious with him? That he’s 007, not Cupid or whatever?”

Abby shrugs again, spearing a piece of gnocchi.

“Even James Bond finds romance in his movies. I don’t see anything wrong with appreciating a hot man you’re working with from a distance. As long as you promise to be careful and not get attached to him,” she adds, sisterly caution lacing her words.

“Promise,” I reply, cutting a meatball in half.

“Trust me, Thatcher No-Last-Name is not my type.” And I mean it.

But I can’t deny the thrill of this story’s potential buzzing louder than the warning bells.

Because Thatcher, whether he likes it or not, has a story begging to be told.

And I’m exactly the right tenacious reporter to tell it.

Because at this point, I don’t really have anything to lose.