Page 109 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

There’s so much warmth and joy in his expression that I can’t believe I ever doubted his feelings for me. “This is crazy,” I say, barely able to contain my excitement. “I never thought?—”

“That you’d end up with the guy who pulled a gun on you?” he asks, teasing. “Guess I’m the best matchmaker in the world.”

I swat his arm, laughing. “Don’t get cocky, Bryant.”

“Or what?”

I narrow my eyes. “Or I might have to hire Griffin as my matchmaker to find me a new partner!”

Thatcher leans back, smug and certain. “I don’t think you will.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” he says. “Because I’m gonna do everything I can to keep you. Forever.”

My breath catches. “You’ve used that word a lot…but forever’s alongtime.”

His thumb moves over my skin with a gentle, featherlight touch. His bright green eyes meet mine as the corners of his mouth curl into a small smile, confident and reassuring. “Well, lucky for you, that meet cute or your money back guarantee comes with a lifetime warranty.”

Epilogue

Allie

One year later…

The shelter smells like disinfectant, soap, and wet dog, a combination that should be unpleasant but somehow feels like hope.

Like those baths are the cleansing and beginning of their new, better lives.

I squeeze Thatcher’s hand as Duke races ahead of us, his small sneakers slapping against the linoleum floor, his excitement echoing through the corridor of kennels. Biscuit trots obediently at my side, his leash loose in my fingers, his nose twitching with interest at the symphony of barks and whines that greet us.

“Remember, Duke, inside voice,” Thatcher calls out, his tone firm but gentle. After a year together, I’ve learned to read the subtle variations in his voice—this one carries a smile beneath the instruction.

I lean into Thatcher’s ear and whisper, “I don’t think it matters in these walls… Dogs don’t exactly understand the concept of inside voices.”

Duke spins around, those green eyes wide with barely contained enthusiasm. “But Dad, they’re all being loud,” he argues, gesturing wildly at the kennels with a logic only a six-year-old could muster.

“See?” I tease Thatcher.

Thatcher rolls his eyes and gives my hand a squeeze. “They’re dogs.” Thatcher counters, “You’re a Bryant.”

I bite back a laugh. The man may have left his military career behind, but some habits die hard—like the expectation of discipline, even at a chaotic animal shelter on a Saturday morning.

“Plus,” Thatcher continues, “some of these dogs might get scared by your outside voice, kiddo. We have to be mindful of what they’re all going through, too.”

Duke seems to mull this over, his brows knitting in serious thought. Finally, he nods and continues ahead quietly.

It’s been a year since Thatcher and I crashed into each other’s lives—a year since bullets and fear and secrets nearly tore us apart before we’d even begun. Sometimes, I still wake up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding with phantom panic, only to feel his arm tighten around me, anchoring me to this new reality we’ve built: safe, stable, and almost embarrassingly domestic.

“Allie!” Duke whispers while tugging at my free hand, pulling me toward a kennel where a spotted mutt with mismatched ears presses its nose against the bars. “Look at this one! He looks like a cookies and cream milkshake!”

I bend down to Duke’s level, my hair falling forward as I peer at the eager dog. “He is pretty cute, isn’t he?”

“He’s perfect,” Duke declares with the absolute certainty that only children possess.

“Let’s see all our options first, buddy,” Thatchersays, ever the strategist. His hand finds the small of my back as I stand up, a casual touch that still sends warmth spiraling through me. “We need to find the right fit for all of us, including Biscuit.”

It still catches me off guard sometimes—how easily I’ve slipped into this role, how natural it feels to be part of their unit. I feed Duke breakfast on weekday mornings while Thatcher goes for his run. I know that Duke hates the crusts on his sandwiches but will eat them if I cut them into zigzags. I’ve memorized Thatcher’s nightmare schedule, the way his breath changes right before he wakes.

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