Page 33 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Allie…” Thatcher warns me quietly.

He shrugs. “Not really. Cats are very self-sufficient.”

“Sure, sure. But wow, the litter box situation must be wild in your house.”

This earns me another sigh from Thatcher. “Maybe steer clear of litter box talk.”

“They’re actually all potty trained,” Chad says with a grin.

I blink in shock. “Your cats are potty trained? As in, they use the actual toilet?”

“That’s right,” he says, nodding proudly.

“Like inMeet the Parents?” I ask once more for clarification.

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s actually not that hard.”

I’msonot a cat person, but this is suddenly fascinating. “So do they have their own bathroom? Or do you share a bathroom with the cats? Like if you wake up in the middle of the night to pee and they’re already in there, do you have to wait while they finish?”

“No, no,” he chuckles. “They have their own bathroom.”

“Well, that’s good. It might get crowded in a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment.”

“Excuse yourself to go look at the silent auction items,”Thatcher says. “Unless you enjoy talking about the bathroom habits of a single man living with five cats.”

I cough to cover my laugh and do as Thatcher says, excusing myself from Chad.

For the next half hour, I bounce from one potential suitor to the next, each brief encounter more cringe-inducing than the last. “I’m a disaster,” I mutter under my breath after accidentally launching a vol-au-vent across the room with an overzealous hand gesture.

“Nobody said espionage was going to be easy,” Thatcher’s voice teases me, and despite myself, I laugh—a genuine, belly-deep chuckle that momentarily clears the fog of my anxiety.

Focus, Allie.I take another sip of champagne and steel myself for the rest of the evening.

“Relax,” Thatcher advises, as if reading my mind. “Let them come to you.”

“Easy for you to say,” I quip back, but I take his advice, taking a seat at a high-top table and watching the gala unfold before me, its tapestry of laughter and light slowly weaving a spell around my jittery heart.

Leaning against the wall, Thatcher blends into the crowd shockingly well. Actually, it’s inconceivable. He’s stunningly handsome in his tuxedo. But handsome with the kind of ease that isn’t overly coiffed like some pretty boy who wouldn’t dare to get caught in a rainstorm.

I watch Thatcher scan the room with a tactical precision that could put a seasoned sniper to shame. The way he subtly positions himself always facing an exit is straight out of a spy novel.

I fumble with my phone, holding it as though I’m texting someone, but secretly angle for a candid shot of Thatcher standing there.

He looks like a model, the way he’s leaning a shoulder casually against the wall, champagne flute in hand. He could be on the cover ofGQ.

“Easy there, paparazzi,” Thatcher’s voice crackles through the earpiece, and I nearly drop my phone onto the table. “You’re supposed to be charming donors, not documenting their every move.”

“Charming is my middle name,” I lie, standing up and nervously smoothing out my dress again.

“Oh yeah? Allison Charming Larsen, I bet that escargot you launched across the room has a different middle name for you.”

“It was a vol-au-vent, thank you very much.”

“What was a vol-au-vent?” a man says behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin, knocking the chair I’d just been sitting in over, sending it crashing to the floor.

The man doesn’t seem deterred by my clumsiness and merely bends over with ease to pick the fallen chair up. He’s one of the few people at the party wearing a silver-plated name tag that reads Kenneth, which means he’s one of the board members of the nonprofit.

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