Page 25 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“This isn’t a date,” Thatcher growls.

“Isn’t it?” I blink innocently at him.

“No,” Thatcher snaps.

“Nice to meet you,” Griffin manages, all charm and smiles, as he holds out the chair for my sister.

“Um…likewise,” my sister replies, though her furrowed brow suggests her social graces are doing a heavy lift. “I’m Abby,” she says, looking at Thatcher who’s still glaring at me.

I hold my own, crossing my arms, knowing that I can’t introduce Thatcher to her without breaking the NDA I signed.

After a long, tense moment, Thatcher takes my sister’s hand. “I’m Thatcher. A…friend of your sister’s.”

I can tell the moment Abby recognizes his name from our talk the other night, but she plays it off expertly well. “Funny,” Abby says. “I know almost all of Allie’s friends and I’ve never heard her mention a Thatcher. Or a Griffin.”

Again, I say nothing.

“We only met the other day,” Thatcher says. “At the café.”

“Uh-huh,” Abby says. “And Griffin is…?”

“Oh, I’m curious about this answer, too,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Griffin is…my colleague.”

There’s another beat of silence when Abby gestures to the two empty chairs at our four-top table. “Well, are you two joining us for dinner? The newspaper picks up the tab for it?—”

“No, they can’t stay,” I say quickly, as Thatcher interrupts me with a cocky grin.

“We’d love to,” he says at the same time. “Who am I to turn down a free meal?”

I send a death glare to my sister as Thatcher lowers into the chair beside me.What the hell is she doing?It’s one thing to pretend I haven’t told her about this dating service story for a brief introduction, but to do so for an entire meal?

An entire meal together where I now know Thatcher is single. Or at the very least, not married.

We’re going to get caught.

We’re going to get caught and outed that I broke the NDA already and my career will be over before it even starts. I have no doubt that a man like Thatcher can pinpoint lies and deception of even the best undercover agent like a drug-sniffing dog. He would take me down without a second thought.

And let’s be honest, I am far from the best undercover reporter.

I’m doomed.

Chapter 9

Thatcher

“I work in private security,” I answer as nonchalantly as possible while pushing my dessert spoon through the remnants of a once magnificent chocolate mousse. Across the table, Abby’s eyes are narrowed with the kind of precision that tells me she isn’t buying the half-truths Griff and I are selling. Her mind is ticking over, a metronome measuring out the gaps in our story.

“Private security,” she repeats, but there’s an edge to her voice that has me concerned. My gaze flicks to Griffin, who shrugs and grins, all easy charm and no sign of the steel beneath. “Now, does that require a special license, like a private investigator?”

“It does to own and run a private security firm,” Griffin chimes in, his tone light but his blue eyes track Abby with the caution of a man who’s used to watching his back. “But each individual security guard does not.”

This time, it’s Allie who leans forward, her elbows on the table, her interest sharpening like the point of a knife. “You two have that look, you know? That military bearing.”She gestures vaguely in our direction, encompassing both Griffin’s casual poise and my own rigid posture.

“It’s no secret we used to be in the military,” Griff says, still easy breezy. But I feel my spine go stiff. With our side mission, I prefer as few people as possible to know my history as a career military man. Then again, it’s nothing that an involved Google search wouldn’t reveal… Still, we don’t need to offer it up to Allie and Abby on a plate.

“Can’t shake it off, I guess,” I admit, my response terse as I avoid confirming anything too specific. It’s hard to deny the obvious—even though we no longer sport the cropped haircuts, we still wear our scars, inner and outer, proudly. Not to mention, the way we carry ourselves not just like soldiers, but officers; highrankingofficers—well, it all screams military. And Allie, damn her astute observations, is reading us like an open book, even with half the pages torn out.

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