Page 9

Thatcher

“I work in private security,” I answer as nonchalantly as possible while pushing my dessert spoon through the remnants of a once magnificent chocolate mousse.

Across the table, Abby’s eyes are narrowed with the kind of precision that tells me she isn’t buying the half-truths Griff and I are selling.

Her mind is ticking over, a metronome measuring out the gaps in our story.

“Private security,” she repeats, but there’s an edge to her voice that has me concerned.

My gaze flicks to Griffin, who shrugs and grins, all easy charm and no sign of the steel beneath.

“Now, does that require a special license, like a private investigator?”

“It does to own and run a private security firm,” Griffin chimes in, his tone light but his blue eyes track Abby with the caution of a man who’s used to watching his back.

“But each individual security guard does not.”

This time, it’s Allie who leans forward, her elbows on the table, her interest sharpening like the point of a knife.

“You two have that look, you know? That military bearing.” She gestures vaguely in our direction, encompassing both Griffin’s casual poise and my own rigid posture.

“It’s no secret we used to be in the military,” Griff says, still easy breezy.

But I feel my spine go stiff.

With our side mission, I prefer as few people as possible to know my history as a career military man.

Then again, it’s nothing that an involved Google search wouldn’t reveal…

Still, we don’t need to offer it up to Allie and Abby on a plate.

“Can’t shake it off, I guess,” I admit, my response terse as I avoid confirming anything too specific.

It’s hard to deny the obvious—even though we no longer sport the cropped haircuts, we still wear our scars, inner and outer, proudly.

Not to mention, the way we carry ourselves not just like soldiers, but officers; high ranking officers—well, it all screams military.

And Allie, damn her astute observations, is reading us like an open book, even with half the pages torn out.

Fortunately, she signed an NDA.

Her sister, on the other hand, didn’t .

And I have to admit, Allie’s been very good at avoiding the landmines tonight at dinner.

“Special ops?” Allie ventures another guess, her eyes darting between us, hungry for the truth beneath the veneer.

Griffin chuckles, a low sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“We could tell you, but then?—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Abby cuts him off with a playful roll of her eyes, but the sisters share a look that tells me they’re already filling in the blanks.

“We’ve had our fair share of...adventures,” I say, allowing a sliver of truth to seep into the conversation.

It’s safer to let her think she’s guessed right than to outright lie.

In the world of covert operations, half-truths are the currency we trade in, and tonight, we’re spending them generously.

“Adventures,” Allie repeats, as if tasting the word, considering its weight.

“I bet you’ve got stories.”

“Stories for another time,” I deflect, with a smile that doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

The protective instinct that’s been drilled into me is flaring up, a warning to tread carefully.

“Fair enough,” she concedes with a knowing nod, as if acknowledging the dance of disclosure we’re engaged in.

“But I’m a good listener, for when you’re ready to share.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply, the corners of my mouth twitching in a semblance of a grin.

It’s actually impressive how she hasn’t broken a single part of the contract considering I’m the one who agreed to join Allie and her sister for dinner.

Most of the probing questions came from Abby.

And the few Allie had were well within her right to ask.

Even still, there’s something about Allie—her clever and shielded questions, her quick wit—that reminds me why I usually keep to the shadows.

Out here, in the open, it’s harder to control the narrative; harder to keep the past where it belongs.

In the rearview mirror.

I can tell Abby’s about to press further when I clear my throat, bringing our dessert-sweetened banter to an abrupt halt.

I tug my company credit card from my wallet and start to hand it to our server, when Allie stops me, pulling out her credit card instead.

“It’s on the newspaper, remember?” Her voice has a cute little purr that vibrates through the cozy ambiance of the restaurant.

The server pauses, looking between us, then takes her credit card, which is already out and pinched between her fingers.

The girl just paid me several thousand dollars for our matchmaking services and then Griff and I crashed her dinner with her sister.

It doesn’t feel quite right to make her cover our meals, too.

“Does the newspaper cover all four of our meals?”

She worries her bottom lip.

“They’ll cover most of it. I have a cap on what I can spend, but it almost covers the bill?—”

Before she can continue arguing, I have my phone out, and quickly Venmo her our half of the bill.

She blinks in surprise as her phone chimes with the money depositing into her account.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“I know,” I say as the server returns with her credit card, a pen, and the receipt.

But this way, she gets the newspaper to cover most of it and our half can be utilized by her as needed.

She scribbles a tip down and signs the merchant copy with a hefty sigh.

We both stand at the same time, but I’m a tick faster as I take her cardigan from the back of her chair and hold it up for her to slide her arms into.

She does so, still eying me warily.

“I’ve never seen someone so bothered by a Venmo payment before,” I whisper to her.

She shrugs the cardigan up onto her shoulders, then procures a silk scarf from her purse, wrapping it around her neck despite the fact that it’s summer in South Carolina.

“I told you I had it covered,” she says sharply.

“I know you did,” I respond.

“But I’ve already taken enough of your money for one week, wouldn’t you say?” When her glare doesn’t lift, I add with a sigh, “Look, I didn’t feel right making you pay for our half of the meal. Not when Griff and I?— ”

“Got caught lying?” she provides.

“I was going to say interrupted your evening .”

All four of us make our way to the front door and Abby gives Allie a tight hug.

“I’m parked in the garage around the corner,” she says.

“Do you need a ride home?”

Allie shakes her head.

“I’m fine?—”

“I’ll make sure she gets home safely,” I interject.

Abby eyes me with a cheeky smirk.

“Very well.”

“I’m parked in that garage, too,” Griffin says, falling into step beside Abby.

I know for a fact he isn’t parked in that garage, but I don’t call him on it.

“Good night, guys!” Abby calls over her shoulder, her laughter mingling with the low hum of conversation as they disappear around the corner.

“You don’t have to walk me home,” Allie says when they’re out of sight.

“You were planning to walk home alone? At this hour?”

“It’s only ten-thirty, grandpa,” she says and I see the protest setting into her piercing hazel eyes.

“I only live a few blocks away. And…” She reaches inside her purse, digging around inside for a few moments before pulling out a small device with a button at the top.

“I’ve got this personal alarm thingy from my sister. It’s obnoxiously loud.”

With a shake of my head, I snort my opinion of that little alarm.

“Wow, a personal alarm thingy? How comforting. And it only took you thirty seconds to retrieve it from the black hole that is your purse. Do you know how much can happen in thirty seconds?”

“I’m guessing it can turn you into a condescending prick.” When I don’t give her the satisfaction of a response, she huffs another sigh and rolls her eyes.

“Look, even if you did walk me home, Biscuit needs his late-night stroll around the block before bed.”

“I’m joining you for your walk. It’s not up for discussion.”

Shoving the alarm back into her purse, she relents, hopefully realizing that arguing with me on this one is futile.

“Fine, you win. But only because you’re scarier than any would-be night prowler.”

“Smart choice,” I reply, a ghost of a smile softening my features for a fleeting moment.

We start walking together in the opposite direction of her sister.

The warmth of the night air is nothing compared to the simmering annoyance heating in Allie’s gaze as we walk along the dimly lit street.

It’s quiet except for the rhythmic click of her heels against the pavement.

Silence doesn’t usually bother me, but something about Allie’s frustrated scowl and creased brow makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

“Look,” I begin, breaking the silence.

“I’m sorry for tonight. Sending Griffin over…it’s just a way to gather information. I didn’t mean for you to feel set up or humiliated.”

“Didn’t you?” she shoots back, not quite able to keep the edge from her voice.

“No, I didn’t,” I reiterate.

She crosses her arms defensively around her, brushing against the bow at her hip.

I’m suddenly reminded about the quick flash of her body I got when she fell over and her dress flew open.

Her creamy skin, long muscled legs, and lean torso has my mouth watering for more.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the image out of my mind.

Jesus Christ, I need to get laid soon.

It’s been far too long.

Between the business and our side mission of finding Drakon and parenting Duke alone, it didn’t leave a lot of time to take care of carnal urges.

Even still, there will be no more glimpses of Allie.

She’s not mine.

She’s here to meet her soulmate…

and that’s definitely not me.

While I sometimes partake in one-night stands, it’s never with a client.

And Allie doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who can do a casual one-night thing.

“Griffin’s an old friend, and I trust his judgment. I needed to know what we’re dealing with here,” I explain, my tone perhaps a little too blunt.

“Dealing with here,” she repeats with a half-hearted chuckle, her hazel eyes meeting mine in the glow of a passing streetlight.

“By throwing me into the deep end?”

“The deep end is the only place to see if you can swim,” I reply, my gaze not wavering.

Jenna used to always say that it was maddening how I could stay so calm when we argued.

And based on the fury in Allie’s eyes, I’d take a guess that she would agree.

We reach Allie’s condo, I slow my steps with hers, careful not to reveal the fact that I already knew her exact address well before this moment.

“Well, this is me,” she says.

I nod.

“I’ll wait while you grab Biscuit.”

“Suit yourself,” she mutters, clearly not exactly thrilled with my company but also not in the mood to argue.

A minute later, she reappears out the front door with Biscuit at her side, a turquoise leash clipped to his collar.

I study the building.

According to my research, it has only four units with Allie’s on the first floor.

“Does this place not have outdoor space? Or a yard for Biscuit to use?” I ask.

Biscuit is already pulling her down the porch steps, making a run for the nearest bush.

“It does, but the landlord doesn’t want Biscuit doing his business in the shared outdoor backyard space. Even when I clean up after him, it’s just a battle I don’t want to fight.”

I might have to have a call with this landlord myself.

This isn’t a bad neighborhood by any means, but it’s quiet and doesn’t have a ton of streetlamps.

Not exactly the safest environment for anybody to be walking after dark.

We set off, Biscuit leading the way with eager sniffs and brisk tugs on his leash.

Silence falls over us again, punctuated only by the occasional bark or rustle of leaves as the warm summer breeze dances through the branches.

“Thatcher,” Allie says after a few minutes.

“Next time, just talk to me, okay? No more setups. I’m a big girl and a bit type A and I like to be prepared.”

“Okay,” I agree.

It was a concession I hadn’t expected to make and one that, despite myself, eases some of the tightness in my chest.

She’s surprisingly astute and straightforward in a way that someone like me can always appreciate.

“Then in the interest of full disclosure, there’s an event that I think we should go to this weekend. There’s at least one man who will be in attendance that I believe would be a good match for you.”

“Already? That’s so fast.”

“We like to move quickly when there’s a potential prospect,” I say.

“Plus, just because you hit it off at one event doesn’t mean our job is over. I’ll walk you through the first three dates of any interested suitor.”

“What’s the event?” she asks as Biscuit pauses to sniff a bush, his leash jangling.

“It’s a gala for the local animal rescue.”

Her eyes light up at that and she spins to look at me, her arm extended as Biscuit tries to get her to continue walking.

“The Tuxes and Tails Gala?”

I nod.

“That’s right. If you’re free Saturday, I’m going to get us tickets.”

“But that Gala is a hundred and seventy-five dollars for a single ticket!”

“That’s right.”

She blinks at me.

“I…I can’t afford that.”

“I’ll take care of the tickets, Allie,” I say.

“That’s part of what your fee covers. Pricey tickets to things like galas or sporting events or any other place that might have your soulmate waiting for you.” Shockingly, I manage to say soulmate without rolling my eyes.

“Oh,” she says quietly.

“Well…that’s easier. But…we…we haven’t prepped for anything remotely gala-like. I can’t waltz in there unprepared, can I?”

Biscuit finally wins out and we start walking again.

“Allie, you don’t need preparation to be yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” she mutters.

“You didn’t flash an entire restaurant tonight.”

I smother my smirk as another flash of heat spikes in my cheeks.

“I promise, I’m not trying to turn you into some sort of Cinderella,” I say, my tone firm, but gentle.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she shoots back.

“Listen to me.” There’s a surprising gentleness in my voice that makes me pause, but I quickly shake it off.

I have to win this client over , I reason with myself, for the sake of the mission .

“I wasn’t watching you tonight because I want to change you, but because I want to understand you. I’m trying to find you a Prince Charming who gets that, who wants you exactly as you are. No fairy godmothers or transformations required.”

When she next looks up at me, the frost melts from her features.

The shadows play across her face, dancing over the soft bow of her lips and ski slope of her nose.

A strange warmth blooms in my chest, one that has nothing to do with the night’s breeze catching her hair and blowing across her forehead.

“Okay,” she relents and she seems to surprise herself as much as she does me.

“But if this turns into a pumpkin disaster, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” I say, swallowing the chuckle in my throat.

“No pumpkins. Promise,” I reply with mock sternness, and we resume our walk with Biscuit happily and obliviously trotting a few steps ahead of us.

“Besides,” she adds, “if I’m going to meet Prince Charming, I should probably make sure he likes dogs first, right?”

I nod.

“My thoughts exactly. We can’t have a Prince Charming who’s a cat person. Perish the thought.”

She mock shudders.

“Ugh, absolutely not. Or worse even, a Prince who’s allergic. And of course, any potential Prince Charming will be contingent upon Biscuit’s approval.”

“Oh, of course,” I say.

When I slide a glance in her direction, there’s no missing the twinkle of victory in Allie’s eyes.

The streets are quiet, save for the distant hum of city life in the distance and Biscuit’s paws padding against the pavement.

I stay alert, my senses sharpened by years of training that never really go dormant.

Allie, on the other hand, seems to float beside me in her own little optimistic bubble.

A prickle of unease shoots down my spine as I hear the slight rustle of clothing ahead of us.

Which wouldn’t be a big deal except for the fact that there are no people on the sidewalk except me and Allie .

“You may not believe me,” Allie rambles on, “but Biscuit is a very good judge of character—” Her words cut off as I stop abruptly, touching my fingers gently to her wrist.

There’s something—or someone—ahead of us; an inkling of shadowed movement coming from the alley that doesn’t fit the sleepy tableau of the neighborhood.

“Stay behind me,” I murmur, turning slightly to shield her.

It’s automatic, the protector role, but with Allie it feels different—more personal, like there’s more at stake than just doing a job.

“Wha—” she starts to question, but I silence her with a look.

It happens fast—the rustle of fabric, the faintest whiff of desperation, a blur of movement—then a shadow detaches itself from the darkened glass of the storefront we’re passing and a figure darts for Allie.

He’s a kid, no more than seventeen or eighteen, eyes wide and wild as he lunges for Allie’s purse.

But I’m faster.

Years of combat training kick in, and my body responds before my mind can register the full weight of the threat.

I grab the kid’s arm and twist, using his own momentum to slam him against the wall.

His breath whooshes out in surprise and pain, and for a moment, the night is still, the only sound our heavy breathing and Biscuit’s confused yips.

“Are you all right?” I ask Allie, not taking my eyes off the would-be thief pinned under my forearm.

“Y-yes, I’m fine,” Allie stammers, her usual confidence replaced by shock.

“Thatcher, what are you?—”

“Throwing a tea party. What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” I retort, though my heart isn’t in the sarcasm.

There’s a part of me that wishes Allie didn’t need saving, that she could walk her dog without fear of being mugged, but that’s not the world we live in.

“Let me go, man!” The kid struggles feebly, but I’ve got fifty pounds, fifteen years, and a whole lot of anger on him.

“Sorry, kid,” I say, my voice low and hard.

“You picked the wrong mark tonight.”

“Please, I?—”

“Save it for the police.” With a grim set to my jaw, I pull out my phone with my free hand, ready to dial 911 and put an end to this little episode.

“Thatcher, wait—please!” Allie’s voice softens as she approaches us.

“What the hell are you doing? Stay back!”

I look back at her, my grip on this guy’s collar still ironclad.

The desperation in Allie’s eyes is unexpected, almost jarring against the backdrop of the quiet night.

“Look at him, Thatcher,” she pleads, gesturing to the trembling figure beneath me with a flick of her eyes.

“He’s just a kid who’s scared out of his mind. This could ruin his entire life over one stupid mistake.”

“Even stupid mistakes have consequences,” I growl.

“Please, let him go.”

“Let him go?” I spit out the words as if they’ve left a sour taste in my mouth.

“You think this is his first time? That he’ll stop because you say please?”

“Maybe not,” she concedes, with that quirk of her brow that drives me mad.

“But everyone deserves at least one second chance.”

Walking closer to the kid still pinned against the brick wall, she leans in.

“If we let you go, will you promise to never do anything like this again?”

The guy swallows, eyes wide and darting between me and Allie.

“I…yeah, I promise. ”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Really?” I ask.

“You’ll just magically go on the straight and narrow and get a regular ol’ job that pays minimum wage?”

He licks his lips nervously.

“I live with my grandma and she can’t work anymore with her arthritis. And I…I can’t get hired anywhere.”

“Why not?” Allie asks, concerned.

I snort.

“Because you have an arrest record, right?”

He gives one short nod.

“Let him go, Thatcher,” Allie demands.

“You’re being naive, Allie,” I grumble.

“Better naive than obtuse,” she shoots back.

“Really?” I glare at her.

This woman that’s so ridiculously out of touch with the dangers of the real world.

“Because naivety can get you killed.”

“And being obtuse makes you a patronizing ass!”

We stay locked in a stare down for a few long seconds.

“Fine,” I finally grind out between my gritted teeth, releasing the kid with a shove that sends him stumbling.

Before he can bolt, I grab his wallet from his back pocket, flipping it open to reveal the ID within.

“Logan Matthews,” I read aloud, committing the name and address to memory.

“Seventeen, huh? You’ve got a lot to lose, starting with your future.”

“Man, I—” Logan tries to interrupt, but I hold up a hand.

“Shut it. If I hear about you pulling another stunt like this, I’ll come find you. And next time, there won’t be any charming rescues from Pollyannas who get dressed in the morning by birds and mice.” I toss the wallet back at him—it hits his chest with a slap before he fumbles to catch it.

“Do you have a bicycle?” Allie asks, surprising both Logan and me .

Logan’s eyes dart back and forth between Allie and me.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Allie…” I try to warn, but she ignores me with a quick glare before pulling out a scrap piece of paper from her purse and a pen.

After scribbling something down, she holds out the paper to the boy.

“Call this number tomorrow. My office is looking to hire a new bike messenger. It’s only part-time hours to start, but if it works out, I’m sure we can give you a referral to get more messenger gigs elsewhere.”

Still eying me, he tentatively reaches out to take the piece of paper from Allie.

I take a deep breath and count to three.

This woman is going to be the death of me.

Of both of us maybe.

Biscuit, oblivious to anything that’s happened, hops onto his hind legs, dancing in front of Logan soliciting some pets.

“Good judge of character, huh?” I mutter, looking down at the dog.

For the millionth time tonight, Allie glares at me.

“Yes. He is.”

“Get lost, kid,” I command, and Logan doesn’t need to be told twice.

I barely register the echo of Logan’s frantic footsteps as they fade into the distance.

Instead, my gaze fixes on Allie, her expressive hazel eyes wide with shock and that infectious smile nowhere to be seen.

The warm summer air seems to hold its breath, too, the earlier breeze nowhere to be found.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath.

I glare at her for a long moment before turning on my heel and walking back toward her apartment, careful not to get too far ahead of her .

Allie exhales a sigh and with a gentle tug on Biscuit’s leash, she resumes walking, scrambling to catch up to my long strides, Biscuit trotting along beside her.

“Thatcher, he was just a kid,” she replies as she catches up beside me.

“And what? Kids can’t be criminals?” I glance in her direction, the streetlight casting stark shadows across her face that highlight the frustration etched into the space around her wide doe eyes.

“Because that’s what he is, Allie. Both kid and criminal. This isn’t some storybook world where thieves see the error of their ways after a good talking-to.”

“Maybe not,” she admits, “but scaring him half to death won’t fix him either.”

“Fix him? Not everyone can be saved or fixed,” I scoff, the sound harsh in the quiet night.

“You think everyone has a sob story? That they all deserve a second chance?”

“Maybe I do,” she shoots back, her cheeks flushed with indignation.

“And maybe I’m not the only one who’s naive here. Maybe you’re too caught up in your own cynicism to see that sometimes, people just need to know someone believes in them.”

“Belief doesn’t stop bad things from happening!” My voice is steel, my anger palpable with every hardening beat of my heart.

“It’s dangerous for you to walk these streets at night thinking the world is one big fairy tale.”

“Then why am I even working with you?” Her voice rises, echoing my own.

“If happily ever afters don’t exist, why be a matchmaker? Why bother with any of this?”

“Because—” I start, then stop, clenching my fists.

The tension between us is a living, breathing thing, and Biscuit whines softly, seeming to sense the shift in the air.

“Because what?” she demands softly.

When I don’t answer her, she squares her shoulders, bristling.

“Why have a whole business dedicated to finding people love if you don’t believe in any of it? A tad hypocritical, wouldn’t you say? Why am I paying you my life savings to find me a freaking Prince Charming?”

“Because…” I open my mouth to speak, but the words get caught somewhere in the back of my throat.

She has me there.

“Because… love is not a fantasy,” I manage to croak out.

“Love is very real. I like helping people find love. It reminds me of…”

Of Jenna.

Of better times.

Owning and running a matchmaking business was never my dream…

But it was Jenna’s.

I turn around to find that Allie has stopped walking a couple of steps back, sudden understanding softening her gaze.

“Oh,” she says quietly.

“ You were in love.”

Were.

Emphasis on the past tense.

I don’t confirm or deny it.

Instead, I say, “I don’t promise happily ever after to any of my clients. They don’t exist. Sooner or later one story ends and another begins. The cycle never ends.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything more.

She doesn’t press for more answers and the moment passes quickly without any more questions.

We walk in silence after that, our steps synchronized but our minds miles apart.

The night wraps around us like a shroud as we turn the corner, reaching the familiar street she lives on, the tension still crackling in the air.

By the time we reach her front door, I don’t have a clue what she’s thinking.

She turns to face me, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her building’s porch light.

“Here we are,” I mutter, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets, feeling a chill despite the warm summer evening.

“Safe and sound.”

“Thanks for...the walk.” There’s a softness to her tone; a brief crack in her armor that makes me want to reach out and hold her, if only for a second.

“Thanks for letting us crash your dinner,” I say as she and Biscuit step inside the open front door.

I want to say more, tell her how she drives me crazy.

Tell her how she makes me feel the stirrings of things I thought were long dead.

How no client has ever wormed their way under my skin quite like she has.

But the words don’t come; they tangle in my throat, stubborn and unyielding.

“See you at the gala, Thatcher.”

“Try not to get into any more trouble before then,” I warn.

“Trouble is my middle name,” she quips, but the laughter doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Good night, Allie.”

“Night.” She gives me one last look, a cocktail of emotions swirling in those hazel depths, before the door clicks shut.

Alone on her stoop, staring at the closed door, I’m left grappling with the one question I can’t answer: Why in the hell does a girl like Allie Larsen need my help finding her Prince Charming?

With a sigh, I turn away, already dreading the upcoming gala.

Because if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that with Allie, the unexpected is always just around the corner.

“Come on, old man,” I mutter to myself, turning away.

I need distance, space to figure out why this spitfire of a woman has me twisted up in knots.

As I walk back through the sleeping city, I can’t shake the feeling that something about Allie Larsen is changing the game.

And I don’t have a playbook for whatever is coming next.