Page 5

Allie

I tap my card against the reader with a shaky hand, and the crisp beep signifies that yes, I’ve just sunk another chunk of my savings into this madcap scheme.

My heart hammers against my rib cage like it’s auditioning for a drum solo in a rock band.

I’ve officially maxed out my credit card for this month.

I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this.

Hiring Thatcher Bryant to fake find me a soulmate is definitely not what I imagined doing at this point in my career.

This is no different than paying for a class in continuing education , I tell myself.

Paying for higher education advances careers.

And so will this.

And it’s not like I’m actually searching for my soulmate.

So maybe, just maybe , if I make this difficult for him, he’ll instate that whole meet-cute-money-back guarantee thing.

“Relax, Allie,” Thatcher says, his voice as steady as the hum of the coffee machine behind us.

“Consider it an investment in your future. ”

My eyes jerk to his.

It’s unnerving how well he can read me.

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, trying to calm the swarm of butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach.

“You’re not the one paying for...well, you.”

“You’re paying for a future soulmate. Not for me ,” he continues, unfazed by my panic.

His green eyes are serious, but I swear there’s a twinkle there, like he enjoys watching me squirm.

He seems at ease in the environment, but even still, his shoulders are stiff like an overly starched shirt.

And his index finger taps lightly against the tabletop suggesting that he might not be quite as relaxed as he seems.

I take a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of roasted beans ground me.

The newspaper will no doubt cover some of this for the undercover exposé.

But the balance?

Whatever they don’t cover?

That’s coming straight out of the Allie Larsen Fund for Investigative Brilliance (a.

k.

a.

, my rapidly depleting bank account).

I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry.

Probably both.

But there’s no backing out now.

Not when my byline could soon blaze across the front page, revealing the seedy underbelly of high-profile matchmakers to the world.

And maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll also learn to stop tripping over my own feet when it comes to anything resembling romance.

“Okay, Thatcher Bryant,” I say, injecting a dose of bravado into my voice.

“Let’s get this masterclass started.”

“Great. Your first lesson begins now.”

“Now?” I ask.

“As in…right now?”

“That’s right. I need to see what I’m working with before I start to research potential suitable matches for you. I’m also going to send you home tonight with homework,” Thatcher says with a tone that means business .

Homework?

This really is like grad school.

“Nothing too intense. A questionnaire on what you’re looking for in a man. Personality tests so I can know who you’re compatible with. That sort of thing. But for now, let’s see what you’ve got.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair and scanning the café.

“The barista is about your age. Good looking. Go on and flirt with him.”

I stifle a giggle, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks.

“Flirt with Greg? Absolutely not. I’ve known him for years and he’ll know something’s up immediately.”

Thatcher’s eyes bounce from me to Greg, then back again.

“Fine,” he concedes with a roll of his eyes.

“Pick someone else in the café then to flirt with. There’s no pressure. I just need to see how you do with meet and greets and small talk.”

“When they don’t involve guns, right?”

His lips quirk.

“Exactly.”

Scanning the room, I spot a good candidate—the quintessential café cute guy tucked away in a corner.

His nose is buried in a book, but not just any book, one of those popular thrillers that you see displayed front and center at every bookstore.

Perfect.

“Okay,” I say, setting Biscuit back down on the floor, still in his little carrying case.

He pokes his head out, eyeing me cautiously as I walk away, leaving him there with Thatcher.

Then, taking a deep breath, I cross the café toward Mr.

Thriller Reader, trying to add a little more sway to my hips than usual.

But as I approach, my mind races; what do I even say?

Do I compliment his taste in books?

No, that wouldn’t be genuine.

I hate scary thrillers.

Plus, my sister just told me all about how much I’d probably hate this book.

Do I comment on the weather?

Ugh, too cliché.

My feet move faster than my brain, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of him, an awkward smile plastered on my face.

“Hi there!” I blurt out way too loud.

He jumps.

The man literally flinches because I basically shouted over him.

Blinking up at me, he adjusts his glasses.

“Er…hi?”

“Hi,” I say again, so fast, I nearly cut him off.

Oh my God.

What’s wrong with me?

“How is that book?” I ask.

“I’m debating buying it, but I’ve heard mixed reviews.”

Welp.

So much for being genuine.

“You have?” he asks, setting the book down for a moment.

I seem to at least have piqued his interest.

I nod.

“Yeah, my sister read it and said that the author clearly wrote the hero in his own image. But like inflated it, you know? Like the kind of guy who can never be a real hero himself so he wrote about himself as if he could or would ever run into a burning building to save a kitten.” I regurgitate the review of the book my sister gave me last night over dinner to this man.

The man’s brows furrow.

“Huh. I find the hero quite likable. Besides, who wouldn’t run into a burning building to save a kitten?”

“Ummm, most people,” I snort.

“Literally ninety-nine percent of the population wouldn’t. Unless they were a firefighter. Or maybe the kitten’s owner. Something like eighty percent of people would run into a burning building to save their own pet but not somebody else’s. I mean, I know I would run into a burning building to save Biscuit?—”

“Biscuit? ”

“My dog.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder and on cue, Biscuit gives a little bark.

“So clearly you see yourself as the hero of a story,” he says, a twinge of annoyance in his voice.

“How’s that any different than this author?”

I try not to cringe as I realize how insane I must sound.

And I can tell I’m losing him.

“No, no. I’m just saying, Biscuit’s family. I’d do anything to save my family.”

“Maybe this hero”—the man taps the cover of his discarded book—“sees all living creatures of the world as his family. Ever thought of that?”

I press my lips together.

Time to backpedal, Allie .

“Right. You’re right. I didn’t think of that. It would make for a very… likable hero.” Unrealistic…

but likable.

He smiles, seemingly satisfied with my response.

“So you think you’ll give it a read? I know the bookstore right next door has signed copies by the author.”

I look down to note the gold signed by the author sticker on his cover.

“Oh. Well. I probably won’t buy my own copy since my sister will let me borrow hers. I mean, who the heck has $24.95 to throw away on a book that may be terrible, am I right? I cannot believe how expensive books are now.”

His smile disappears.

“The cost of a book that will entertain you for hours is too much, yet seven dollars for a latte you finish in twenty minutes isn’t?”

“No! I don’t mean… I love books. I read books. Lots of books. I’m just not sure about this book.” I pick up the copy off his table, flipping through it.

“I mean, it’s not even three hundred pages! And look at this.” I flip open to a description of the heroine that focuses way too much on her boobs and read the passage aloud.

“ Her eyes land on his distinct muscles and she licks her lips seductively, her hand trailing down over the cleavage pushing out of her red dress. The distinct pebble of pearled nipples press against the nearly sheer fabric —” I snort at the description.

“I mean come on. This is like a real life version of that boob meme everyone shares! He clearly hasn’t spent any significant time with a woman. I don’t know a single woman who licks her lips and caresses her cleavage when she sees a handsome ma—” I shut the book and turn it over to the back cover where the author’s bio and headshot stares back at me, my words catching at the back of my throat.

I gulp, looking between the picture and the man sitting in front of me.

His eyes are sharp and assessing…

and suddenly way too familiar.

It hits me like a poorly aimed spitball.

This man sitting in front of me is the same man in the photo.

He’s the author of the lip-licking, cleavage-caressing heroine and cat-saving hero.

“Wait, you’re…you’re the author?” I stammer, but he’s already nodding, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

He takes the book from me, my heart sinking into my stomach.

“I-I’m so sorry.”

“For what exactly? For saying that you won’t spend money on my book even if you do read it? Or for saying that I’m an egomaniac injecting myself into the hero role of my story? Or maybe you’re sorry for implying that I haven’t ever been with a woman?”

If the floor could kindly open up and swallow me whole, I would most appreciate it.

“No… I didn’t mean?—”

“For the record, I have been with a woman. And I would go into a burning building to save a kitten. ”

Unable to stop myself, I roll my eyes.

“Everyone says that until they’re faced with Fight, Flight, or Freeze.”

Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me?

Shut up, Allie!

Quit while you’re ahead…

“Well, this has been a real joy,” he says, draining the last of his coffee and tucking the book under his arm.

“You and Bisquick have a nice life together. Alone .”

“It’s Biscuit,” I mutter, cheeks burning as I hastily retreat to the table where Thatcher is watching.

I sink back into my seat and Biscuit gives me a consoling lick on the calf as Thatcher barely manages to contain his laughter.

“That was maybe the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Thatcher says.

I groan and drop my face into my hands.

“You said no pressure!” I argue.

“Lesson one,” Thatcher says, “always know who you’re talking to.”

“Got it,” I reply, tucking a strand of rebellious hair behind my ear.

“Learned the hard way, unfortunately.”

“To be fair,” Thatcher says, crossing an ankle over his knee, “what egomaniac reads his own book in a coffee shop?”

“Right?!” I peek through my fingers at Thatcher, feeling momentary triumph.

“And a signed copy, to boot!”

“And there’s no way a tool like him is running into a burning building to save anything,” Thatcher adds under his breath with a snort.

“Except maybe a signed copy of his own book?” I offer, perking up now, relieved that Thatcher is on my side with this.

“Next time I’ll just insult his shoes and call him a mama’s boy.”

Thatcher laughs and the sound catches me so off guard that I actually jump.

But there’s a warmth in his gaze that I hadn’t noticed before.

“I mean, you did practically call him a virgin back there. But let’s hope there won’t be a next time like this one.”

“Agreed,” I say, the embarrassment still fresh, but lessening.

“So, what’s lesson two?”

“Damage control,” he replies with a knowing look.

“And believe me, it seems we’ll need plenty of that if what I saw over there was your best effort at flirting.”

“Fantastic,” I sigh, slumping back onto my chair and hoping my crash course in flirtation improves before I accidentally declare war on an entire book club.

“Admittedly, first impressions aren’t my forte,” I admit.

“Oh, I remember. One doesn’t forget being stalked into an alley,” Thatcher quips, but there’s no malice in his voice.

It’s teasing and light, and I can’t help but smile.

“Hey, you’re not exactly Mr. Smooth Talker, yourself there,” I counter, trying to match his playful tone.

“Until you, I’ve never actually been able to use the line: Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” We both laugh and it feels good to finally break the tension we’d been holding on to since yesterday.

“Let’s hope I don’t send every man you find for me running for the hills.”

His chuckle lessens and he shakes his head, lifting a full cup of coffee that he must have ordered while I was embarrassing myself to his lips.

“A man who runs from you has to be certifiably insane,” he says.

Time stills and his smile dies as he realizes what he just said.

Our eyes lock for a moment as something flutters in my chest—like a tiny bird suddenly taking flight.

I never would have guessed banter with him could be so easy.

Not when he was a gruff one-word guy up until now.

I clear my throat.

“Well, I think running sounds painfully monotonous. So let’s cross all runners off my list, yeah?”

“No runners,” he says, his voice dropping a notch.

“Got it.”

I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand.

“So, what’s my next challenge, coach?”

“First, we—” He starts, but the words are cut short by the sound of the café door swinging open with a bang.

“Daddy!” A pint-sized tornado with curly black hair and bright green eyes comes barreling through the room, making a beeline for Thatcher.

My eyes widen as a stunning woman follows closely behind him.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Duke saw you in the window and sprinted off.” The platinum blonde woman couldn’t be older than twenty-three.

Her lips are plump and glossy, and her cheeks are flushed from the chase.

Thatcher’s face lights up as he scoops the little boy into his arms.

“It’s okay. I know from experience that this little guy’s faster than he looks.”

“Daddy! You didn’t tell me you were coming here! Did you get me a cookie?” Duke’s voice is filled with excitement, and the bond between them is so unexpectedly warm and loving that it’s momentarily heart-stopping.

“I was just going to order one, buddy,” Thatcher says, ruffling his son’s hair.

“How about I get two? One for you and one for?—”

“Your friend?” Duke says, his eyes turning to look at me curiously.

I gulp, my mind racing as I piece together the scene in front of me.

How much does his son and wife know about his business?

His NDA is tight, but it’s supposed to protect my anonymity as well.

Up until now, I never could have imagined Thatcher being a family man.

But watching him bouncing the little boy on his knee is so natural that it robs me of my breath.

And when I look up to catch his wife’s adoring smile, I feel a twinge of…

jealousy?

No, that can’t be right.

We’re working together, nothing more.

He’s a job.

A means to an end.

A way for me to get my dream career off the ground.

Even if we did have a small moment right before they came in.

“Uhm, hi there,” I say awkwardly, waving at Duke.

I force a smile, hoping my sudden internal crisis isn’t written all over my face.

“Hi! I’m Duke!” he says, peering at me curiously, those vibrant eyes so much like his father’s.

“Are you one of Daddy’s friends?”

“Something like that,” I reply, still reeling from the interruption.

I glance at the woman who also smiles widely and takes my hand.

“I’m Missy! It’s so nice to meet one of Thatcher’s friends, finally!”

I blink, not sure what the hell is going on.

Does Thatcher not have any friends?

How can he hide an entire thriving business from his wife?

Thatcher pulls some cash out of his wallet and hands it to Missy.

“Could you grab three cookies?”

She smiles, taking the money, then giving me a polite nod, she heads to the counter to order from Greg.

“Are you going to play with us?” Duke’s question snaps me back to the present.

He’s looking at me with such genuine curiosity that my heart melts a little.

“Uh, well, Duke, your dad and I were?—”

“Working,” Thatcher interjects smoothly.

“Miss Allie is helping me with some very important work.”

“Like spies?” Duke’s eyes widen with the possibility .

“Exactly like spies,” Thatcher confirms with a wink.

“Wow...” Duke seems impressed, and I can’t help but laugh.

Biscuit barks at my feet and Duke’s eyes impossibly go even wider.

“And you have a dog? Can I pet him?”

He wriggles out of his dad’s hold and sinks to his knees on the floor in front of Biscuit.

“Of course,” I say.

“His name is Biscuit and he loves cookies, too. Just not ones with chocolate.”

“But chocolate chip cookies are the best!” Duke exclaims.

Thatcher reaches down and ruffles Duke’s dark, curly hair.

“Chocolate is bad for a dog’s tummy, though.”

Duke juts his bottom lip out, pouting.

“That’s so sad he can never have chocolate.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” I say.

“He prefers cheese, anyway.”

At the counter, I catch as Missy leans over the glass display case, pointing at the cookies.

She’s stunning.

Thatcher’s whole family is stunning.

Like models you’d find in a catalogue.

“You know,” I say, clearing my throat.

“I should probably be going. You’ll send me those, um, questionnaires to do tonight?”

“Are you sure?” Thatcher asks.

“They’ll be going home soon?—”

I stand up and wave my hand at him.

“No, no, it’s fine. Enjoy your afternoon with your family.” Again, my eyes glance over his shoulder to find Missy making her way back over to us with three cookies on a plate.

“Family…” Thatcher follows my gaze to Missy.

“Oh, but?—”

“All right, little man,” Missy says, setting the cookies down on the table.

“Sanitize those hands before you eat.” She pulls a small bottle out of her purse.

I bend down and pick up Biscuit, still in his bag as well as my purse, slinging both carefully over my shoulder.

“At least take a cookie,” Thatcher says, nudging the plate toward me.

“I got the third one for you.”

“But then you won’t have one,” I say.

“Daddy doesn’t eat refined sugar,” Duke says, hopping back into Thatcher’s lap.

I lift a brow at Thatcher.

“Your son knows the phrase refined sugar ?”

Missy laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Oh, you should hear how much this precocious little thing absorbs,” she says, reaching over to tickle Duke’s ribs.

“Please,” Thatcher says.

“Take the cookie. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

“Well, okay,” I agree, reaching out and grabbing one of the large chocolate chip cookies.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Allie,” Duke says, flashing me a toothy grin.

“Likewise, Agent Duke,” I call back as I head for the door.

Once outside, I steal one more peek at the cute little family inside the coffee shop.

The momentary connection we had must have been entirely in my head.

I replace those feelings with my original plan.

Unravel the mystery that is Thatcher Bryant—matchmaker, father, and unintentional thief of hearts.