Page 24 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Perfect.” I lean in closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Because I’ve got a few ideas.”

For a moment, Griffin looks like a deer in headlights, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. But then I remember the earpiece—and Thatcher—and any remorse I have quickly evaporates.

“Maybe we should first focus on enjoying our meal,” he suggests.

“Or,” I say, reaching out to caress his clean-shaven jaw. Then with a playful tilt of my head, I press my lips closer to his ear where I know the microphone is tucked and add, “We can skip dinner and go straight to dessert. Maybe Thatcher wants to watch how I amaftera date, too?”

Leaning forward, I grab Griffin’s tie and give it a firm yank, pulling his face nearly flush to mine. “Thatcher, darling,” I breathe into the tiny microphone hidden in Griffin’s earpiece. “I can see you skulking back there at the bar. Did I pass your little test?”

Releasing Griffin, I smirk, feeling like I’ve won a round of high-stakes poker with nothing but a pair of twos.

Griffin’s eyes dart around the restaurant, panicked and wide as he smooths his tie. “What did you say?”

I smile triumphantly and lean back in my chair crossing my arms. “Thisisall for Thatcher’s benefit, right? I’m guessing it’s another weird little test to see how I react to a man hitting on me?”

Griffin’s face morphs into a grin and he presses his lips together to smother his chuckle. “So all of this was an act?” he asks. “The flirting and the clumsiness and falling and your dress tearing open?—”

“Well,” I start, not sure how to tell him the disastrous part of the evening was the real me.

“Oh, be honest, Allie,” Thatcher says, suddenly appearing before us to tower over the table. “All that stuff at the beginning wasn’t an act. Including your little peep show.”

“Oh, please,” I say, lifting my chin. “Like you’ve never seen a wardrobe malfunction before.”

“Not one quite that memorable,” he says, voice low and amused. His gaze lingers for a second too long, dipping to my neckline. Heat crawls up the back of my neck.

“Well,” I say quickly, needing to steer this conversation out of flirtation territory before I combust, “I’m sure your wife has a thing or two to say about that.”

Griffin nearly spits out the sip of his drink he had taken and Thatcher blinks rapidly at me. “I’m sorry…mywhat?”

“Your wife,” I repeat, confused now. “Missy. I met her and Duke the other day at the café.”

Thatcher’s face twists like I told him I saw him on a reality dating show and Griffin doesn’t even try to hide his cackle. “Oh no,” Thatcher says. “No, no, no. Missy’s not my wife. She’s...she’s my son’s nanny.”

My eyes widen. “She is?”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck, looking mildly horrified. “Of course. She’s only in college for Christ’s sake.”

“Well what was Isupposedto think?” I say, flustered. “You two looked...cozy!”

“She also wipes jam off my five-year-old’s face and does dinosaur voices at bedtime,” he says, deadpan. “Trust me, there’s no coziness happening.”

I blink, my thoughts scrambling.He’s not married.I try not to let the rush of relief show on my face, but it’s there, unmistakable, traitorous. Because the second Thatcher said “nanny,” a dozen doors I’d mentally slammed shut cracked open.

And now I’m panicking.

“Right,” I say, fidgeting with my napkin. “Well. That makes sense. She seemed...really good with kids.”

Thatcher raises an eyebrow, and something glints in his eyes like he caught my little flicker of hope and is tucking it away for later. “She is great with kids. Probably because she’s practically still a kid herself.”

The clang of the restaurant door saves me from having to continue with this conversation as my sister rushes into the trendy restaurant, still dressed in her scrubs. She catches sight of us from across the room—me, flanked by two strange men—and her steps stutter to a halt for a long moment.

Shaking it off, she rushes over to our table. “Allie?” she asks. “Is uh…is everything okay?” Her voice carries through the trendy hum of clinking glasses and low conversations, tinged with a mix of confusion and concern.

“Oh, everything’s fine.”

Her eyes dart between Griffin, Thatcher, and me, clearly trying to piece together a puzzle where the edges don’t quite fit. I can tell she’s half a second from dragging me into the ladies’ room for an interrogation, the trademark Larsen Sister Rescue Mission.

“Griffin, this is my sister,” I say, gesturing towards her while he stands to offer her the seat across from me. “She’s not usually part of my dates, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

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