Page 101 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“No,” I whisper.

I whip my gun back to where Drakon was, but he’s no longer standing there.Where did he go?

From the corner of my eye, I see Thatcher break away from the Enforcer, his movements precise, purposeful. I utilize the moment and take aim, and this time, I don’t hesitate. One shot, two shots. The first bullet hits the wall behind him. But the bark of my gun is sharp and final as the Enforcer goes down clutching the point where my bullet entered—his thigh. Not a kill shot, but hopefully enough to stop his advances and give Thatcher the edge.

There’s no time for triumph, no time for relief. Because Drakon comes out of nowhere andis on Thatcher in a flash, a blur of savage fury. They grapple, a tangle of limbs and snarls; fury against skill, brutality against precision.

And for a moment, it seems like Thatcher might win. For a moment, I allow myself to hope.

But the Russian mobster fights dirty, and Thatcher is already wounded. A vicious blow to his temple sends him reeling, his knife clattering to the ground. Drakon is on him in an instant, pinning him down, the barrel of his gun pressed to Thatcher’s head.

“No!” The scream tears from my throat, raw and ragged.

Drakon looks up, his smile a twisted, terrible thing. “Drop the gun, little girl,” he croons. “Or lover boy here gets a bullet for breakfast.”

My hand shakes, my aim wavering. I can’t think, can’t breathe. All I see is Thatcher, his face pale, his eyes locked on mine. All I feel is the yawning chasm of a world without him.

I start to lower my weapon, despair a leaden weight in my chest.

“That’s right,” Drakon says. “Kick the gun away.”

A sob tears from my throat as I reluctantly do what he says and I slide the gun across the room, careful so that it isn’t within arm’s reach of Drakon. But far enough away that he feels safe.

As covertly as I can, I reach into my pocket, pulling free the little scissors. I’m not sure what they can do yet, but I feel better having some sort of weapon in hand, no matter how small.

“Good girl. This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” Drakon says. “He’s supposed to watchyoudie. He’s supposed to witness the death of everyone he holds dear. You really threw a wrench into my plans.”

Thick arms grab me from behind and I gasp. AdmiralBrady came from nowhere. I try to kick free as Thatcher’s previous boss’s hold tightens around me.

Before I can respond, a flash of fur runs past us with a high-pitched battle cry. Biscuit, my fearless, foolish, wonderful dog, latches onto Drakon’s leg with the tenacity of a pit bull. Drakon howls, more in surprise than pain, his gun swinging wildly away from Thatcher’s head. But it’s the opening we need, the split-second chance we’d prayed for.

Thatcher fights for the gun, knocking it free from Drakon’s hands. Meanwhile, I don’t hesitate either. Using the defense moves Thatcher taught me, I stomp my heel as hard as I can down on his instep, then elbow Admiral Brady in the ribs. He grunts and loosens his hold on me, but doesn’t let go entirely. I try to run as Thatcher taught me, but the admiral is gripping one of my arms still. I whip around to face him and slam the scissors into the admiral’s eye, whipping around in time to watch helplessly as Thatcher reaches the discarded gun first. Rolling onto his back, he aims and shoots.

Drakon staggers, his eyes wide, disbelieving. He looks down at the crimson blooming across his chest, his fingers coming away red and slick.

And then he falls, a puppet with his strings cut.

For a moment, there’s only silence, broken by the rasp of labored breathing. And then Thatcher and I are both moving, crawling to where Biscuit lies whimpering where Drakon had kicked him away.

“No, no, no,” Thatcher murmurs, his hands infinitely gentle as he scoops my little dog into his arms. “Biscuit, buddy, you’ve got to be okay. You’ve got to.”

I’m there in an instant, my heart in my throat. Biscuit’s tail wags weakly, his tongue darting out to lick Thatcher’schin. He’s hurt, that much is clear, but he’s alive. He’s alive, and so are we.

The realization hits me like a freight train, the adrenaline draining out of me in a dizzying rush. I sag against Thatcher, my face pressed to his shoulder, my tears soaking his shirt.

“We made it,” I whisper, hardly daring to believe it. “We actually made it.”

Thatcher’s arm comes around me, holding me close, holding me up. “Thanks to you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “And this little guy.”

Biscuit whines softly, as if in agreement, and a watery laugh bubbles up my throat. We’re bruised and bloodied, battered beyond belief. But we’re still here…together.

In the distance, sirens wail, a promise of help on the horizon. I can hear the thud of boots, the shouts of familiar voices. Griffin. Hunter. Backup, finally.

But for now, in this moment, it’s just us. Thatcher and me, holding each other amidst the wreckage, Biscuit cradled between us. A family forged in the fire.

I tilt my face up to Thatcher’s, as his lips find mine in a kiss that tastes of salt and copper and something else…something like hope.

“Maybe next time we can battle something easier,” I say. “Like…sharks.”

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