Page 10 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Griffin asks, clearing his throat and tapping the analog clock ticking on my desk. “Little miss cardigan is going to be waiting for you at the coffee shop soon.”

I groan, my eyes darting to note the time. Dammit. Allie Larsen is already a pain in my ass and she’s not even officially our client yet.

I shove the folder Hunter dropped intomy desk drawer, its contents screaming for my attention. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stepping out in the middle of a storm about to break, but Allie Larsen isn’t going to wait around for me. And neither will the bills piling up on the corner of my desk.

“Thatch, we’re all good here.” Griffin’s voice pulls me back from the edge of obsession. “Those files will still be there tomorrow. Go meet the client. We’ll hold down the fort.”

“Right,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. I snap my laptop shut and slide it into my bag, then snatch my jacket from the back of my chair, feeling the weight of responsibility like a second skin.

“Remember, charm and disarming smiles, that’s your mission now,” Griffin calls after me, a smirk in his voice.

“You know I leave all that Prince Charming bullshit to you,” I throw back, not bothering to turn around. Sarcasm is my weapon of choice; smiles however, are uncharted territory.

Stepping out into the bustling historic downtown, I inhale deeply, trying to switch gears. The warm summer air prickles at my skin, a welcome distraction from the chill of the office’s recent revelations. The café where I’m supposed to meet Allie is only a couple blocks away, tucked between a bookstore and a florist, its quaintness a stark contrast to the gritty work we do behind the scenes.

As I approach, I spot her through the window—a burst of sunlight in human form.

Dammit. With a glance at my watch, I confirm she’s almost twenty minutes early.

It’s rare that I’m ever second to arrive at a meeting. I like getting there first. Choosing the perfect table. Sitting with my back to a wall so I can see the entrances and exits.

But nope. There she sits, her wavy brown hair catching the light every time she tilts her head, lost in the pages of a book.

“Focus, Thatcher,” I remind myself. “She’s a paycheck. A means to an end.” But as I push the door open, the small bell announcing my arrival, the scent of roasted coffee beans wraps around me like a warm invitation, and I can’t help but think—what if this is where my life takes a sharp left turn? And not for the better.

She glances up, a smile spreading across her face as her eyes catch mine, and she stands to greet me, offering her hand. “Thatcher No-Last-Name,” she says. Her voice dances across the space between us, playful and bright. It pulls a reluctant twitch of a grin onto my face.

I glance around at her table of choice. Dead center in the middle of the café, leaving us wide open.

“Do you have the signed NDA?” I ask, taking her hand first, then lowering to the seat across from her.

Her hazel eyes widen. “Right down to business, I see.”

She pulls the papers from her purse and slides them across the table to me. I blink at them. “All I needed was an electronic signature.”

“I did that, too, and emailed it over to you about fifteen minutes ago. I like to cover all bases.”

“I see.” It might be the first thing she’s ever said that I agree with. I flip through the pages, making sure she initialed and signed everything necessary. Then with a nod, I look up at her. “ThatcherBryant,” I say, finally giving her my full name and extending my hand.

Even though we’ve already met, she still takes my hand. It suddenly feels way too rough in her soft grip.

At her feet, there’s a small yip that startles me. Her grin widens. “And this is Biscuit!” She lifts a salmon pink bagonto her lap with a small fluffy dog poking its head out the top.

Of course, I already knew all about Biscuit from my research. How she rescued him as a puppy from an overfilled puppy mill. How she still arranges monthly playdates with his siblings and mother so they can “keep in touch”…whatever the hell that means.

But I play dumb and simply nod at the dog. “I didn’t realize they allowed dogs in establishments that serve food.”

They don’t. I know this for a fact.

“As long as his paws don’t touch the floor, he’s allowed in here,” she says and gives the dog a kiss between his ears.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask her.

“Of course. I wouldn’t put my favorite café at risk?—”

“Not about that. Aboutthis. Hiring my…services.”

“Oh.That. Of course,” she says, blinking those wide eyes at me. “You have everything you need from me, right?”

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