Page 11 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Everything but the payment.”

She swallows hard. “None of the paperwork explained the fee.”

“We like to ensure our anonymity first.” I bend down and pull out our contract along with fees and payment plans and hand it to her. “But if you decide to proceed, we need a down payment of three thousand dollars today. The remaining balance can be paid by the end of the week.”

She gulps, looking over the contract. “Wow…true love is expensive, huh?”

“You have no idea, Allie.” No fucking idea. “But we’re very good at what we do. Everything comes guaranteed. Meet cute or your money back.”

Chapter 5

Allie

I tap my card against the reader with a shaky hand, and the crisp beep signifies that yes, I’ve just sunk another chunk of my savings into this madcap scheme. My heart hammers against my rib cage like it’s auditioning for a drum solo in a rock band.

I’ve officially maxed out my credit card for this month.

I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this. Hiring Thatcher Bryant to fake find me a soulmate is definitely not what I imagined doing at this point in my career.

This is no different than paying for a class in continuing education, I tell myself. Paying for higher education advances careers. And so will this.

And it’s not like I’mactuallysearching for my soulmate. So maybe,just maybe, if I make this difficult for him, he’ll instate that whole meet-cute-money-back guarantee thing.

“Relax, Allie,” Thatcher says, his voice as steady as the hum of the coffee machine behind us. “Consider it an investment in your future.”

My eyes jerk to his. It’s unnerving how well he can read me.

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, trying to calm the swarm of butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach. “You’re not the one paying for...well, you.”

“You’re paying for a future soulmate. Not forme,” he continues, unfazed by my panic. His green eyes are serious, but I swear there’s a twinkle there, like he enjoys watching me squirm. He seems at ease in the environment, but even still, his shoulders are stiff like an overly starched shirt. And his index finger taps lightly against the tabletop suggesting that he might not be quite as relaxed as he seems.

I take a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of roasted beans ground me. The newspaper will no doubt cover some of this for the undercover exposé. But the balance? Whatever they don’t cover? That’s coming straight out of the Allie Larsen Fund for Investigative Brilliance (a.k.a., my rapidly depleting bank account).

I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry. Probably both. But there’s no backing out now. Not when my byline could soon blaze across the front page, revealing the seedy underbelly of high-profile matchmakers to the world.

And maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll also learn to stop tripping over my own feet when it comes to anything resembling romance.

“Okay, Thatcher Bryant,” I say, injecting a dose of bravado into my voice. “Let’s get this masterclass started.”

“Great. Your first lesson begins now.”

“Now?” I ask. “As in…right now?”

“That’s right. I need to see what I’m working with before I start to research potential suitable matches for you. I’m also going to send you home tonight with homework,” Thatcher says with a tone that means business.

Homework? This reallyislike grad school.

“Nothing too intense. A questionnaire on what you’re looking for in a man. Personality tests so I can know who you’re compatible with. That sort of thing. But for now, let’s see what you’ve got.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair and scanning the café. “The barista is about your age. Good looking. Go on and flirt with him.”

I stifle a giggle, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “Flirt with Greg? Absolutely not. I’ve known him for years and he’ll know something’s up immediately.”

Thatcher’s eyes bounce from me to Greg, then back again. “Fine,” he concedes with a roll of his eyes. “Pick someone else in the café then to flirt with. There’s no pressure. I just need to see how you do with meet and greets and small talk.”

“When they don’t involve guns, right?”

His lips quirk. “Exactly.”

Scanning the room, I spot a good candidate—the quintessential café cute guy tucked away in a corner. His nose is buried in a book, but not just any book, one of those popular thrillers that you see displayed front and center at every bookstore. Perfect.

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