Page 23 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Serendipity, maybe?” His smile has a mischievous edge. “Or perhaps I’m just a man who can’t resist the gravitational pull of a woman who looks like she could use some company.”

“Company, huh?” I venture a smile, but it feels forced.

“Absolutely. And who knows? Maybe if I’m lucky, you’ll review me favorably too.”

He lifts his hand, reaching up to touch my hair. I suck in a sharp breath as his fingers caress a path down my cheek and I jerk back instinctively. The movement is abrupt, a little too vehement, and my chair, loyal accomplice to gravity that it is, betrays me.

Time slows as my traitorous chair tips backward, my arms flailing in a dramatic attempt to regain balance to no avail. With a clatter that echoes through the hushed tones of the restaurant, I topple to the floor.

And then, as if the evening hasn’t already reached peak embarrassment, the fabric of my wrap dress, which has until this moment been modestly tied around my waist, snags on the edge of the table and unfurls like a flag of surrender.

I’m sprawled on the polished floor of the hippest new restaurant in Charleston in a less-than-dignified heap, my dress now flung open, the world suddenly privy to my bra and polka-dot panties.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” Griffin’s voice cuts through my mortification, concern etched in his handsome features as he reaches down to help me up.

“Fine,” I squeak, scrambling to pull my dress closed with trembling hands. “Just...making sure everyone gets their money’s worth with dinneranda show.”

I feel the gazes of the other patrons on me, their murmurs a cacophony of curiosity and amusement. But Griffin rushes to help me to my feet, diffusing the tension like the verified Prince Charming he is. As he lifts me back up, I quickly tie my wrap dress at my waist, the heat in my cheeks blazing red hot.

Leaning in, he whispers in my ear, “Next time we’ll aim for a standing ovation.” Somehow, despite the chaos, I can’t help but smile along with him.

“Okay, okay,” I mutter to myself, my cheeks still aflame with embarrassment. A deep breath steadies me as I reclaim my seat at the table, carefully avoiding any additional wardrobe malfunctions. My eyes dart around the restaurant, seeking an escape from this strange man’s heated stare when they lock onto a figure lurking in the furthest shadowy corner of the bar.

I know those stiff shoulders.

And the nervous, light tap of his index finger to the top of the bar. Even though he’s facing the other direction not looking at me, it’shim. I know it is.

Thatcher.

Thatcher Bryant, with his chiseled jawline and brooding green eyes, is here at the restaurant I’m reviewingon the same night that I get hit on for the first time in months.

Coincidence? Doubtful.

I huff a laugh as I bring my attention back to the man who brought me one of my favorite drinks…again, coincidentally. Griffin sits across from me, his blue eyes warm with concern—or is he simply a phenomenal actor? He’s similar to Thatcher, yet different. Definitely more suave, but he has the same air of authority and military precision, even though I’ve never gotten confirmation of that. The neatly cuffed shirt; his starched pants with one intentional crease down the center of each leg. The cropped haircut.

That’s when I notice it: a tiny earpiece so discreet, I’m surprised I can even see it. All at once, the pieces fall into place. Griffin isn’t some random guy; he’s Thatcher’s mouthpiece, a marionette dancing to the tune of instructions whispered into his ear.

The realization hits me like a rogue wave; this has his fingerprints all over it. The drink, the handsome stranger, the flirty advances—it’s straight out of the matchmaking service’s playbook. And Thatcher’s probably been enjoying every minute of the show.

This is so clearly a setup, and I’ve unwittingly played the starring role in Thatcher’s twisted rom-com.

“Is everything all right?” Griffin asks, leaning forward, the picture of empathy.

“Better than all right,” I say, quickly changing my tactics. I might be rusty at flirting, but I can do this. I lean closer to him and gently run my fingers across my necklace, drawing his eyes to my…well, cleavage isn’t exactly the right word considering I’m not exactly a voluptuous woman. But it certainly brings his attention to my sternum.

Griffin’s eyes widen slightly, his perfect façade crackingfor a brief second before he recovers. But I don’t give him a chance to get back on script.

“Isn’t it so funny how things like this happen out of the blue?” I purr, sliding my hand across the table to cover his. “I had almost given up on meeting a wonderful, charming, sexy man…and then poof, you appear out of nowhere.”

I lower my eyes in a way that I hope looks sultry and not like I’m about to fall asleep.

This isn’t me—not the Allie who trips over words and blushes at a mere compliment. No, this Allie is daring, bold, and outrageously flirtatious. And it’s all for Thatcher’s benefit.

“Uh, yeah—yes,” Griffin stammers, the smooth operator suddenly lost for words. I can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to adjust to this new, unexpected version of me. “That’s the thing about meeting someone. The moment you stop looking, the perfect person falls right into your lap.”

“Tell me, Griffin,” I say, my voice dripping with feigned seduction, “what are you doing after dinner?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, clearly caught off guard. “I…haven’t made plans.”

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