Page 6

Thatcher

As Allie’s figure disappears through the doorway of the coffee shop, I can’t help but linger on the sway of her hips and the orange glow of sunshine that seems to gather in her dark hair.

She’s beautiful, as simple and undeniable as a mathematical equation.

Griffin was spot on—she’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel for our matchmaking service.

Easy money to fund our mission.

Duke wiggles in my lap and picks up a fallen chocolate chip from his half-eaten cookie, popping it into his mouth.

I ruffle his dark curls, so like his mother’s, and press a kiss to the top of his head, inhaling the scent of the No Tears vanilla shampoo we use every other day.

“Missy,” I say, turning to our nanny with an appreciative nod, “why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?”

“Are you sure?” Missy gives me a doubtful look, before sneaking a quick glance at the time on her phone.

“You never take afternoons off.”

I’m well aware of the fact that I’m a workaholic as well as the pile of paperwork waiting for me back in the office, not excluding that Drakon file Hunter delivered right before my meeting with Allie.

“I’m positive.” I drop my cheek to the top of Duke’s head and inhale his scent deeply.

How many afternoons will I get with my son before he’s running off with friends?

Before he’s too busy with sports and extracurriculars and girlfriends to want to spend time with his old man?

I muster a smile, hoping it doesn’t betray the sadness tugging at my insides.

“Okay, then.” She gathers her things and waves at Duke.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Duke!”

“Bye!” He waves back at her with chocolate-covered fingers that I quickly intercept and wipe with a napkin before I’m wearing half of that chocolate myself.

With a final smile, she heads out, leaving the two of us alone.

“All right, little man.” I lift Duke off my lap and deposit him in the chair beside me.

“What’s the game plan for dinner?”

“PIZZA!” he declares without hesitation, crumbs flying in all directions.

The cookie has almost all but disappeared.

“Hmmm, I was thinking something a little healthier. We have some chicken and broccoli at home,” I counter.

He pauses, his face twisting as he considers this.

“What if we get chicken and broccoli on our pizza?”

“If we do that, then you can’t pick it off,” I warn him.

“You have to eat the chicken and broccoli, too.”

Duke deflates a little in his seat, pouting.

“Fine.”

Suppressing my chuckle, I take a clean napkin and wipe away the remnants of cookie from his face.

“How about half extra cheese and half chicken and broccoli? And a side salad.”

Duke scrunches up his nose.

“Salad, too? ”

I lean back in my seat and take a casual sip of coffee.

“We can always scrap the entire negotiation and go home to cook instead.”

“No! I’ll eat some salad, I promise.”

“So it’s a deal?”

“Deal!” He holds out a tiny hand and I shake it, as he seals our negotiation with a giggle.

“Let’s roll, partner.” I scoop him up, feeling his warmth seep into my chest—a reminder of what’s truly important.

The paperwork can wait; these moments with Duke are fleeting and precious.

“Operation Dinner is a go!” he announces, saluting sharply as we exit the coffee shop.

“Operation Dinner is a definite go,” I echo, knowing in my heart that no mission has ever been more vital.

On the TV, Errol Flynn leaps over a table, grasping a chandelier.

Inexplicably, Duke has become obsessed with old Errol Flynn movies, Robin Hood being his favorite.

But as the clink of sword fighting flickers across the screen, Duke’s already out like a light, curled up on the couch.

I switch off the TV and for a moment, just watch him breathe—the rise and fall of his chest is hypnotic.

There’s a peace to it that I can’t seem to find anywhere else in my life.

His second half-eaten pizza slice on the coffee table tells me Operation Dinner was a success, and I give myself a mental pat on the back that he even ate the entire small bowl of salad I gave him, too.

Now, as he sleeps, I’m struck by how much this little guy means to me.

I thought I knew what love was when I met his mother.

But I had no idea.

I had no idea the capacity for love a human could have until Duke entered my life…

and his mother left this world.

“All right, buddy,” I whisper, sliding an arm under his knees and another around his shoulders.

He stirs but doesn’t wake, mumbling something about robbing from the rich before settling again, nestling against my chest.

The weight of him against me is grounding and reminds me why I hung up my uniform for good.

No medal or commendation could ever match the honor of being Duke’s dad, especially after we lost Jenna.

She’d have wanted me here, and hell, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

In fact, if I left on another tour, I’m sure she would have kicked my ass to next Tuesday.

Tiptoeing up the stairs, I carry him to his room, which still smells faintly of the dried lavender Jenna always kept in our drawers.

It’s one of those small details I kept doing, even after she passed away.

My own little nod to keeping a small part of her in his life and memory.

Even if he could never remember that she always smelled like lavender, maybe he can still find a way to associate it with her, just like I do.

Tucking him into bed feels like a sacred ritual, each motion deliberate, from straightening the covers to brushing back the curls from his forehead.

“Night, champ,” I murmur, even though I know he’s already deep in dreamland.

There’s paperwork in my office calling my name—the mystery of where Drakon has been hiding won’t solve itself—but instead, I open my laptop and pull up Allie’s questionnaire that she emailed over an hour ago.

I skim through her answers, my eyes snagging on the section about her ideal man .

Educated.

A job he loves.

She would love someone to play tennis with.

My eyes latch onto the sentence.

Tennis?

Allie doesn’t strike me as a club-going tennis player.

But suddenly, a picture of the man she wants forms in my mind.

An Ivy League suit during the work week.

Polo shirts, boat shoes, and a country club membership card burning a hole in his wallet on the weekends.

A guy who knows his Bordeaux from his Beaujolais and probably orders foie gras before every meal.

“Good luck with that,” I chuckle to myself, trying to imagine goofy Allie at some stuffy gala, sipping champagne and making small talk over canapés.

It’s a world away from my life, filled with kindergarten parent teacher conferences and action figure landmines.

But hey, that’s what she wants, and my job isn’t to judge.

My job is to find it for her.

Although part of my job is sometimes helping to guide people into realizing who might be the best match for them, even if it doesn’t fit the white picket fence picture they have in their heads.

Like a runner.

My eyes swing to my own running shoes that always sit near the front door and my stomach sours.

Something tells me that the challenge with Allie will be finding her the right match…

and not simply the right match on paper .

I click out of the questionnaire and open our search engine database of eligible bachelors and bachelorettes.

We don’t run our service in the standard way most matchmaking services do.

Most businesses have people consent to being part of their database.

We, on the other hand, use our resources to search all over the city for people who might fit the bill.

Even if they haven’t signed up or given us consent.

One of the perks of having been trained in intel gathering.

It’s not exactly ethical, but no one needs to know how we arrange these meet cutes; not even our clients.

All they know is that we show up to a location and the perfect cookie cutter man is there waiting…

No harm, no foul.

I click through the database and pause as I come across Kenneth Colmstock.

A financial planner for Morgan Stanley, he runs their entire southeast division with headquarters here in Charleston.

His mother grew up breeding Irish Setters…

a point in favor for Allie.

He likes dogs, although purebred Irish Setters are likely a far cry from the fluffy little thing in her purse at the café.

I open my browser and search his name to find out more than what our general notes have already compiled.

I confirm that he’s still single and nothing has changed since we first found him.

His brother and sister-in-law recently moved to North Carolina.

He studied at Tulane…

And he posted that this weekend he plans to attend the yearly Tuxes and Tails Gala that benefits the Animal Rescue League.

Bingo.

Perfect.

The most perfect place to bring Allie for our first mission, actually.

And even if Kenneth doesn’t quite pan out, there may be multiple men for her to choose from at an event like that.

I pull out my phone and text Griffin.

This weekend is only a few days away and I really need to watch Allie in her natural habitat more before then.

I need to see how she handles it when a man approaches her with interest.

Maybe she’s less awkward than what I witnessed at the café today.

Thatcher:

Are you up for some recon tomorrow night with the new client?

Griffin:

Sure, what’d you have in mind?

Thatcher:

I need to see how Allie reacts when a man hits on her.

Griffin:

I think I can handle hitting on a gorgeous woman.

I roll my eyes at him and toss my phone on the coffee table, ignoring that last text.

A shrill scream shatters the silence like a siren in the dead of night, and I’m on my feet before I’ve even registered I’m moving.

My heart slams against my ribs, a rhythm I haven’t felt since combat zones and close calls.

For a second, I’m back in North Africa—dust, danger, explosions, the metallic taste of fear.

Another cry from Duke’s room and I’m taking the steps two at a time, flinging open the door.

“Hey, hey, buddy, I’m here.” I flick on the light, squinting at the sudden brightness.

“What’s wrong?”

I rush to his side, climbing into bed with him where Duke’s huddled under his Avengers covers, his face scrunched up like he’s trying to squeeze the bad dreams out of his mind.

“Someone...someone was watching,” he sobs, eyes darting around his room, not seeing me, not really .

My heart rate slows, coming back down to normal.

I’m not a soldier right now.

This isn’t life or death.

“Shh, it’s just a dream. No one’s watching you.” I scoop him up, feeling his little heart rabbiting away beneath his Spider-Man pajamas.

“You’re safe, Duke. I’ve got you.” I cradle him close, the familiar weight of his small body anchoring me back to reality as well.

He clings to me, his breaths hitching as he slowly calms down.

“Mommy was there,” he whispers into my neck.

“The man was following both of us.”

I rub his back in slow circles and squeeze him a little closer as emotion clogs my throat.

“She was protecting you in your dream, huh?”

He hiccups another sob, but nods against me.

“Yeah. I want Mommy!”

“I know, kiddo, I know.” There’s a lump in my throat, but I swallow hard against it, willing it away.

“But I’m here, okay? Always.”

It takes a while of rocking and holding him, but eventually, his grip loosens, and his breathing evens out.

I gently lay him back onto his pillow, tucking the covers up to his chin like armor against the darkness.

“Stay, Daddy,” he mumbles, already half asleep.

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving.” I settle into the chair by his bed, keeping my hand on his little leg, watching over him, my own pulse slowing to match his.

And then I see it.

Moonlight plays across broken branches right outside his window, jagged and raw against the night sky.

Like something—or someone—had been there, disturbing the peace of our quiet life.

A chill traces the length of my spine because I know what trampled branches look like.

I’ve been trained to track and find boot prints .

Or am I losing it?

Am I completely paranoid?

Even still, I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

Gulping, I take another quick glance at my son, fast asleep and stand up, peering out into the darkness, half expecting to see eyes staring back at me from out the window.

But there is nothing.

Just the wind, whispering secrets through the leaves, and the quiet suburban street that’s become our home—a far cry from the war zones of my past.

Even still…

those branches.

They’re supposed to be intact.

No squirrel or raccoon could have broken them like that.

Nope.

That sort of damage is only caused by something or someone over forty pounds.

To be safe, I pull out my phone and snap some pictures of the broken branches.

It will be good to have it on record just in case.

“Get a grip,” I whisper to myself, checking the locks on the window one more time before I finally let myself relax back into the chair beside his bed.

There is no threat, not here.

Not on my watch.

I glance back at Duke, his chest rising and falling softly with sleep, and know that no matter what, I’ll keep it that way.