Page 8

Allie

The menu, with its tiny font and dim lighting, is a battle I’m not prepared to fight.

I hadn’t thought to bring my reading glasses to my review tonight.

I set the menu down and tug the candle in the center of the table closer to me, squinting to try to read the appetizers.

On the table beside me, my phone buzzes and I quickly glance at it.

It’s only a text from my mom checking in.

And there’s still no sign of my sister.

She’s officially twelve minutes late.

Which isn’t all that surprising.

She rarely gets out of work on time.

The clink of glass on wood startles me from my thoughts.

I look up from the menu to see a tall, bubbly drink with a spiral of orange zest perched on its rim set down before me.

“Sorry, I think there’s been a mistake,” I say, trying to catch the attention of the server who is already walking away from the cocktail delivery.

“I didn’t order this. ”

“It’s from the gentleman over there,” the server says, but he doesn’t gesture in a specific direction.

Confusion creases my brow as I glance around the trendy new restaurant that had opened last week.

The place is industrial chic—exposed brick, hanging Edison bulbs, and succulents in geometric terrariums dotting the reclaimed wood tables.

It’s the kind of spot that will make for a great review in the paper, assuming the food matches the atmosphere.

“Well, I don’t think I should accept?—”

Before the words can fully leave my lips, a man appears before me, cutting me off from the line of sight of the server.

My protest dies on my lips as I stare up at Adonis himself…

if Adonis traded his ancient robes for a well-tailored suit that screams urban chic.

A charming smirk curves his full lips.

He’s so strikingly handsome it would almost be laughably cliché—like he’s walked straight out of a rom-com montage where the heroine sees the love interest for the first time in slow motion.

His easy smile suggests playful mischief and his eyes, a deep ocean blue, hold mine with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, the corners of his mouth tilting into a smile.

“I noticed you sitting here alone and thought you might enjoy this.”

“Uhhh,” is my eloquent reply.

He pauses to gesture at the server who delivered it before promptly scurrying away.

“I had a server deliver it so that you’d know it was never in my hands. Totally safe to drink.”

That’s actually quite considerate and it leaves me caught somewhere between flattered and flustered, which isn’t a neighborhood I frequent.

My brain scrambles for something witty, something non-Allie-esque to say, but I come up short.

“I’m Griffin,” he introduces himself and I mentally applaud his parents for giving him a name that matches his too-good-to-be-true looks.

He slides into the seat across from me, exuding an ease as though we’re old friends rather than two strangers in a restaurant where the chandeliers cost more than my rent.

My voice hitches, caught somewhere between surprise and skepticism.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He chuckles a deep sound that seems to vibrate through the table.

“Not yet, but I’m hoping to change that.” He lifts his drink in a casual toast.

“Consider this an icebreaker,” he says with a voice smooth as the jazz playing softly in the background.

He sets a drink identical to mine on his side of the table as he leans back, getting comfortable in the seat across from me.

I hesitate, unsure whether to be flattered or wary.

“This is...unexpected.” My fingers play with the edge of the menu, still open in front of me.

“But I’m actually working tonight. And waiting for someone.”

“Is that someone a date?”

“Um…well, no?—”

“And whomever it is is clearly late,” he replies with a confidence that suggests he knows more than he should.

“Shame on them.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Maybe I’m early,” I say, trying to mask the unease with a playful curiosity that doesn’t quite reach my hazel eyes.

The man—Griffin—shrugs nonchalantly.

“Maybe. But I doubt it. You’ve been here for nearly fifteen minutes. And it’s the trendiest new spot in town. I don’t think they’d seat you fifteen minutes before your reservation.” His grin is undimmed by my reaction.

His presence is overwhelming, like a sudden plot twist I hadn’t seen coming—an interruption to the storyline I’d carefully planned for the evening.

But despite the initial shock, there’s something about him that seems so disarmingly genuine and charming, I find myself not turning him away immediately like I normally would do.

“Fine,” I acquiesce with a mock sigh, closing the menu and leaning back in my chair to appraise this unexpected guest.

“You’ve got my attention, Griffin. Let’s see if you can keep it.”

“A test,” he says.

“I’ve always done well in school. As I said, I’m Griffin.” He extends a hand with the sort of charm that could’ve been bottled and sold.

“And you must be...?”

“Allie,” I squeak out, my voice betraying me by pitching up three octaves into chipmunk territory.

His handshake is firm yet gentle, the kind of handshake you’d expect from someone who volunteers at soup kitchens in his spare time or bakes bread for elderly neighbors.

“You said you’re here working, what is it you do?”

I glance around me, making sure my server isn’t anywhere in the vicinity and whisper, “I’m a restaurant reviewer.” Then I put my index finger to my lips.

“But shhh. I’m supposed to be undercover.”

His eyes shine brighter with that statement.

“An undercover food mission. Allie, your secrets are safe with me.”

“So,” I say, looking down into my mystery cocktail.

“What are we drinking?”

“It’s a French 75 with a twist of orange,” he says.

“Right, of course,” I say.

Being a food reviewer, I certainly know enough about cocktails to get by, but they aren’t my specialty.

However, a French 75 is almost always my drink of choice…

though I’ve never had it with an orange twist.

I take a tentative sip, the bubbles tickling my nose.

It’s fresh, crisp, and delicious.

It’s so good, I take another larger sip immediately after as Griffin leans forward, placing his elbows on the table.

“Your eyes are like two full moons in a starless sky,” Griffin says, the words rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease.

While most girls would probably swoon at such a statement, it catches me completely off guard and…

I start to laugh.

But with a mouthful of bubbly champagne, it goes right up my nose and I nearly snarf the entire large sip I just took.

I lunge for the napkin wrapped around my silverware and unroll it just in time to catch the spray coming out my nose and cover my subsequent coughing fit.

“Are you okay?” There’s a shift in his voice.

What was once warm honey is now more genuine.

Not quite as deep or smooth, but more…

real.

I nod and lower the napkin from my mouth as my coughing subsides.

“Sorry.” I fold the napkin, placing it back down beside my table setting.

“I think your comment…er…caught me off guard. Not many people call my regular, old hazel eyes moon-like . Actually, no one calls them that,” I say with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Regular old hazel? No, Allie, there’s an entire universe in your gaze.” His tousled hair falls into those strikingly bright eyes in a way that’s unfairly attractive.

If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought it was rehearsed and planned…

if only a hair flop could be.

“Wow, you really lay it on thick, don’t you?” I pick up the napkin once more and refold it, trying to find a diversion from his intense look.

Is this guy for real?

Flirting seems like a second language to him—one I am decidedly not fluent in.

Once more, I glance toward the door, willing my sister’s arrival.

“If I was laying it on thick, I would say I see my future in your gaze,” he retorts with a wink that sends my pulse scampering like a startled rabbit.

Then, standing, he slides the chair around so that we’re sitting even closer to each other.

“Right,” I mutter.

“So, uh, what brings you here tonight? Other than handing out compliments and drinks to solitary diners?”

“Serendipity, maybe?” His smile has a mischievous edge.

“Or perhaps I’m just a man who can’t resist the gravitational pull of a woman who looks like she could use some company.”

“Company, huh?” I venture a smile, but it feels forced.

“Absolutely. And who knows? Maybe if I’m lucky, you’ll review me favorably too.”

He lifts his hand, reaching up to touch my hair.

I suck in a sharp breath as his fingers caress a path down my cheek and I jerk back instinctively.

The movement is abrupt, a little too vehement, and my chair, loyal accomplice to gravity that it is, betrays me.

Time slows as my traitorous chair tips backward, my arms flailing in a dramatic attempt to regain balance to no avail.

With a clatter that echoes through the hushed tones of the restaurant, I topple to the floor.

And then, as if the evening hasn’t already reached peak embarrassment, the fabric of my wrap dress, which has until this moment been modestly tied around my waist, snags on the edge of the table and unfurls like a flag of surrender.

I’ m sprawled on the polished floor of the hippest new restaurant in Charleston in a less-than-dignified heap, my dress now flung open, the world suddenly privy to my bra and polka-dot panties.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” Griffin’s voice cuts through my mortification, concern etched in his handsome features as he reaches down to help me up.

“Fine,” I squeak, scrambling to pull my dress closed with trembling hands.

“Just...making sure everyone gets their money’s worth with dinner and a show.”

I feel the gazes of the other patrons on me, their murmurs a cacophony of curiosity and amusement.

But Griffin rushes to help me to my feet, diffusing the tension like the verified Prince Charming he is.

As he lifts me back up, I quickly tie my wrap dress at my waist, the heat in my cheeks blazing red hot.

Leaning in, he whispers in my ear, “Next time we’ll aim for a standing ovation.” Somehow, despite the chaos, I can’t help but smile along with him.

“Okay, okay,” I mutter to myself, my cheeks still aflame with embarrassment.

A deep breath steadies me as I reclaim my seat at the table, carefully avoiding any additional wardrobe malfunctions.

My eyes dart around the restaurant, seeking an escape from this strange man’s heated stare when they lock onto a figure lurking in the furthest shadowy corner of the bar.

I know those stiff shoulders.

And the nervous, light tap of his index finger to the top of the bar.

Even though he’s facing the other direction not looking at me, it’s him .

I know it is.

Thatcher.

Thatcher Bryant, with his chiseled jawline and brooding green eyes, is here at the restaurant I’m reviewing on the same night that I get hit on for the first time in months.

Coincidence?

Doubtful.

I huff a laugh as I bring my attention back to the man who brought me one of my favorite drinks…

again, coincidentally.

Griffin sits across from me, his blue eyes warm with concern—or is he simply a phenomenal actor?

He’s similar to Thatcher, yet different.

Definitely more suave, but he has the same air of authority and military precision, even though I’ve never gotten confirmation of that.

The neatly cuffed shirt; his starched pants with one intentional crease down the center of each leg.

The cropped haircut.

That’s when I notice it: a tiny earpiece so discreet, I’m surprised I can even see it.

All at once, the pieces fall into place.

Griffin isn’t some random guy; he’s Thatcher’s mouthpiece, a marionette dancing to the tune of instructions whispered into his ear.

The realization hits me like a rogue wave; this has his fingerprints all over it.

The drink, the handsome stranger, the flirty advances—it’s straight out of the matchmaking service’s playbook.

And Thatcher’s probably been enjoying every minute of the show.

This is so clearly a setup, and I’ve unwittingly played the starring role in Thatcher’s twisted rom-com.

“Is everything all right?” Griffin asks, leaning forward, the picture of empathy.

“Better than all right,” I say, quickly changing my tactics.

I might be rusty at flirting, but I can do this.

I lean closer to him and gently run my fingers across my necklace, drawing his eyes to my…

well, cleavage isn’t exactly the right word considering I’m not exactly a voluptuous woman.

But it certainly brings his attention to my sternum.

Griffin’s eyes widen slightly, his perfect facade cracking for a brief second before he recovers.

But I don’t give him a chance to get back on script.

“Isn’t it so funny how things like this happen out of the blue?” I purr, sliding my hand across the table to cover his.

“I had almost given up on meeting a wonderful, charming, sexy man…and then poof, you appear out of nowhere.”

I lower my eyes in a way that I hope looks sultry and not like I’m about to fall asleep.

This isn’t me—not the Allie who trips over words and blushes at a mere compliment.

No, this Allie is daring, bold, and outrageously flirtatious.

And it’s all for Thatcher’s benefit.

“Uh, yeah—yes,” Griffin stammers, the smooth operator suddenly lost for words.

I can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to adjust to this new, unexpected version of me.

“That’s the thing about meeting someone. The moment you stop looking, the perfect person falls right into your lap.”

“Tell me, Griffin,” I say, my voice dripping with feigned seduction, “what are you doing after dinner?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, clearly caught off guard.

“I…haven’t made plans.”

“Perfect.” I lean in closer, dropping my voice to a whisper.

“Because I’ve got a few ideas.”

For a moment, Griffin looks like a deer in headlights, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt.

But then I remember the earpiece—and Thatcher—and any remorse I have quickly evaporates.

“Maybe we should first focus on enjoying our meal,” he suggests.

“Or,” I say, reaching out to caress his clean-shaven jaw.

Then with a playful tilt of my head, I press my lips closer to his ear where I know the microphone is tucked and add, “ We can skip dinner and go straight to dessert. Maybe Thatcher wants to watch how I am after a date, too?”

Leaning forward, I grab Griffin’s tie and give it a firm yank, pulling his face nearly flush to mine.

“Thatcher, darling,” I breathe into the tiny microphone hidden in Griffin’s earpiece.

“I can see you skulking back there at the bar. Did I pass your little test?”

Releasing Griffin, I smirk, feeling like I’ve won a round of high-stakes poker with nothing but a pair of twos.

Griffin’s eyes dart around the restaurant, panicked and wide as he smooths his tie.

“What did you say?”

I smile triumphantly and lean back in my chair crossing my arms.

“This is all for Thatcher’s benefit, right? I’m guessing it’s another weird little test to see how I react to a man hitting on me?”

Griffin’s face morphs into a grin and he presses his lips together to smother his chuckle.

“So all of this was an act?” he asks.

“The flirting and the clumsiness and falling and your dress tearing open?—”

“Well,” I start, not sure how to tell him the disastrous part of the evening was the real me.

“Oh, be honest, Allie,” Thatcher says, suddenly appearing before us to tower over the table.

“All that stuff at the beginning wasn’t an act. Including your little peep show.”

“Oh, please,” I say, lifting my chin.

“Like you’ve never seen a wardrobe malfunction before.”

“Not one quite that memorable,” he says, voice low and amused.

His gaze lingers for a second too long, dipping to my neckline.

Heat crawls up the back of my neck.

“Well,” I say quickly, needing to steer this conversation out of flirtation territory before I combust, “I’m sure your wife has a thing or two to say about that. ”

Griffin nearly spits out the sip of his drink he had taken and Thatcher blinks rapidly at me.

“I’m sorry…my what ?”

“Your wife,” I repeat, confused now.

“Missy. I met her and Duke the other day at the café.”

Thatcher’s face twists like I told him I saw him on a reality dating show and Griffin doesn’t even try to hide his cackle.

“Oh no,” Thatcher says.

“No, no, no. Missy’s not my wife. She’s...she’s my son’s nanny.”

My eyes widen.

“She is?”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck, looking mildly horrified.

“Of course. She’s only in college for Christ’s sake.”

“Well what was I supposed to think?” I say, flustered.

“You two looked...cozy!”

“She also wipes jam off my five-year-old’s face and does dinosaur voices at bedtime,” he says, deadpan.

“Trust me, there’s no coziness happening.”

I blink, my thoughts scrambling.

He’s not married.

I try not to let the rush of relief show on my face, but it’s there, unmistakable, traitorous.

Because the second Thatcher said “nanny,” a dozen doors I’d mentally slammed shut cracked open.

And now I’m panicking.

“Right,” I say, fidgeting with my napkin.

“Well. That makes sense. She seemed...really good with kids.”

Thatcher raises an eyebrow, and something glints in his eyes like he caught my little flicker of hope and is tucking it away for later.

“She is great with kids. Probably because she’s practically still a kid herself.”

The clang of the restaurant door saves me from having to continue with this conversation as my sister rushes into the trendy restaurant, still dressed in her scrubs.

She catches sight of us from across the room— me, flanked by two strange men—and her steps stutter to a halt for a long moment.

Shaking it off, she rushes over to our table.

“Allie?” she asks.

“Is uh…is everything okay?” Her voice carries through the trendy hum of clinking glasses and low conversations, tinged with a mix of confusion and concern.

“Oh, everything’s fine.”

Her eyes dart between Griffin, Thatcher, and me, clearly trying to piece together a puzzle where the edges don’t quite fit.

I can tell she’s half a second from dragging me into the ladies’ room for an interrogation, the trademark Larsen Sister Rescue Mission.

“Griffin, this is my sister,” I say, gesturing towards her while he stands to offer her the seat across from me.

“She’s not usually part of my dates, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“This isn’t a date,” Thatcher growls.

“Isn’t it?” I blink innocently at him.

“No,” Thatcher snaps.

“Nice to meet you,” Griffin manages, all charm and smiles, as he holds out the chair for my sister.

“Um…likewise,” my sister replies, though her furrowed brow suggests her social graces are doing a heavy lift.

“I’m Abby,” she says, looking at Thatcher who’s still glaring at me.

I hold my own, crossing my arms, knowing that I can’t introduce Thatcher to her without breaking the NDA I signed.

After a long, tense moment, Thatcher takes my sister’s hand.

“I’m Thatcher. A…friend of your sister’s.”

I can tell the moment Abby recognizes his name from our talk the other night, but she plays it off expertly well.

“ Funny,” Abby says.

“I know almost all of Allie’s friends and I’ve never heard her mention a Thatcher. Or a Griffin.”

Again, I say nothing.

“We only met the other day,” Thatcher says.

“At the café.”

“Uh-huh,” Abby says.

“And Griffin is…?”

“Oh, I’m curious about this answer, too,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Griffin is…my colleague.”

There’s another beat of silence when Abby gestures to the two empty chairs at our four-top table.

“Well, are you two joining us for dinner? The newspaper picks up the tab for it?—”

“No, they can’t stay,” I say quickly, as Thatcher interrupts me with a cocky grin.

“We’d love to,” he says at the same time.

“Who am I to turn down a free meal?”

I send a death glare to my sister as Thatcher lowers into the chair beside me.

What the hell is she doing?

It’s one thing to pretend I haven’t told her about this dating service story for a brief introduction, but to do so for an entire meal?

An entire meal together where I now know Thatcher is single.

Or at the very least, not married.

We’re going to get caught.

We’re going to get caught and outed that I broke the NDA already and my career will be over before it even starts.

I have no doubt that a man like Thatcher can pinpoint lies and deception of even the best undercover agent like a drug-sniffing dog.

He would take me down without a second thought.

And let’s be honest, I am far from the best undercover reporter.

I’m doomed.