Page 12 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Okay,” I say, setting Biscuit back down on the floor, still in his little carrying case. He pokes his head out, eyeing me cautiously as I walk away, leaving him there with Thatcher.

Then, taking a deep breath, I cross the café toward Mr. Thriller Reader, trying to add a little more sway to my hips than usual.

But as I approach, my mind races; what do I even say? Do I compliment his taste in books? No, that wouldn’t be genuine. I hate scary thrillers. Plus, my sister just told me all about how much I’d probably hate this book. Do Icomment on the weather? Ugh, too cliché. My feet move faster than my brain, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of him, an awkward smile plastered on my face.

“Hi there!” I blurt out way too loud.

He jumps.

The man literally flinches because I basically shouted over him.

Blinking up at me, he adjusts his glasses. “Er…hi?”

“Hi,” I say again, so fast, I nearly cut him off.

Oh my God. What’s wrong with me?

“How is that book?” I ask. “I’m debating buying it, but I’ve heard mixed reviews.”

Welp. So much for being genuine.

“You have?” he asks, setting the book down for a moment. I seem to at least have piqued his interest.

I nod. “Yeah, my sister read it and said that the author clearly wrote the hero in his own image. But like inflated it, you know? Like the kind of guy who can never be a real hero himself so he wrote about himself as if he could or would ever run into a burning building to save a kitten.” I regurgitate the review of the book my sister gave me last night over dinner to this man.

The man’s brows furrow. “Huh. I find the hero quite likable. Besides, whowouldn’trun into a burning building to save a kitten?”

“Ummm,mostpeople,” I snort. “Literally ninety-nine percent of the population wouldn’t. Unless they were a firefighter. Or maybe the kitten’s owner. Something like eighty percent of people would run into a burning building to save theirownpet but not somebody else’s. I mean, I know I would run into a burning building to save Biscuit?—”

“Biscuit?”

“My dog.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder and on cue, Biscuit gives a little bark.

“So clearly you see yourself as the hero of a story,” he says, a twinge of annoyance in his voice. “How’s that any different than this author?”

I try not to cringe as I realize how insane I must sound. And I can tell I’m losing him. “No, no. I’m just saying, Biscuit’s family. I’d do anything to save my family.”

“Maybe this hero”—the man taps the cover of his discarded book—“sees all living creatures of the world as his family. Ever thought of that?”

I press my lips together.Time to backpedal, Allie. “Right. You’re right. I didn’t think of that. It would make for a very…likablehero.”Unrealistic…but likable.

He smiles, seemingly satisfied with my response. “So you think you’ll give it a read? I know the bookstore right next door has signed copies by the author.”

I look down to note the goldsigned by the authorsticker on his cover. “Oh. Well. I probably won’t buy my own copy since my sister will let me borrow hers. I mean, who the heck has $24.95 to throw away on a book thatmaybe terrible, am I right? I cannot believe how expensive books are now.”

His smile disappears. “The cost of a book that will entertain you for hours is too much, yet seven dollars for a latte you finish in twenty minutes isn’t?”

“No! I don’t mean… I love books. I read books.Lotsof books. I’m just not sure aboutthisbook.” I pick up the copy off his table, flipping through it. “I mean, it’s not even three hundred pages! And look at this.” I flip open to a description of the heroine that focuses way too much on her boobs and read the passage aloud. “Her eyes land on his distinct musclesand she licks her lips seductively, her hand trailing down over the cleavage pushing out of her red dress. The distinct pebble of pearled nipples press against the nearly sheer fabric—” I snort at the description. “I mean come on. This is like a real life version of that boob meme everyone shares! He clearly hasn’t spent any significant time with a woman. I don’t know a single woman who licks her lips and caresses her cleavage when she sees a handsome ma—” I shut the book and turn it over to the back cover where the author’s bio and headshot stares back at me, my words catching at the back of my throat.

I gulp, looking between the picture and the man sitting in front of me. His eyes are sharp and assessing…and suddenly way too familiar. It hits me like a poorly aimed spitball.

This man sitting in front of me is the same man in the photo.

He’s the author of the lip-licking, cleavage-caressing heroine and cat-saving hero.

“Wait, you’re…you’re the author?” I stammer, but he’s already nodding, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He takes the book from me, my heart sinking into my stomach. “I-I’m so sorry.”

“For what exactly? For saying that you won’t spend money on my book even if youdoread it? Or for saying that I’m an egomaniac injecting myself into the hero role of my story? Or maybe you’re sorry for implying that I haven’t ever been with a woman?”

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