Page 35 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“It’s hard,” he says. “But really gratifying.”

I bend to give the hound a few more snuggles and kiss the top of her velvety head. “Ugh, how could anyone waste their time breeding designer dogs when there’s so many in need of homes?”

Thatcher groans. “Allie?—”

“I mean, can you imagine?” I continue, cutting Thatcher off. He doesn’t get to jump back into our conversation after ghosting me and judge what we’re saying. “Spending several thousand dollars on a dog when there’s the sweetest pups in need every day?”

“Allie,” Thatcher snaps more firmly this time. “Kenneth’s mother breeds designer dogs.”

Panicked, my eyes go wide as I look up at Kenneth.

But to my surprise, his expression isn’t angry or guarded. In fact, it’s soft. “Couldn’t agree more,” he says. “Dogs aren’t accessories, they’re family. Imagine how many dogs we could save if people took the five-thousand dollars they spend on a toy poodle-doodle whatever mix and donated it to the rescue instead.”

His earnestness catches me off guard. “Y-yes, exactly. Five thousand dollars for one dog could save so many from euthanasia.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he adds. “In full disclosure, my mother breeds show dogs. I joined the board to try to make amends for my mother’s…enthusiasm with Irish Setters.”

“Did we just become best friends?” I tease. I’m shocked that I found this rare flicker of connection amidst the sea of small talk and empty smiles.

“Do you feel like dancing?” Kenneth asks me.

“In here?”

He chuckles. “I was thinking back in the ballroom…on the dance floor. But hey, if you want to spend the rest of the night in here with the pups, I won’t argue.”

“Don’t you dare hide out with the dogs all night, Allie,” Thatcher chastises me.

“No, no,” I say to Kenneth. Not because Thatcher told me to, but because I want to spend more time with him. “A dance would be lovely.”

“Think you can manage to dance without tripping or spilling anything?” Thatcher chides, but I tune him out. For once, I’m having a real conversation at one of these shindigs, and it feels surprisingly good.

Moments later, we’re stepping ontothe dance floor. The music swells—a rhythmic beat that promises an escape into the world of swirling dresses and dapper suits. I take a deep breath, poised to follow Kenneth’s lead.

But it isn’t long before I realize something’s off. Usually, I can glide across a dance floor with the ease of water slipping through fingers, but with Kenneth, it’s like trying to waltz with a bookshelf. Stiff, unyielding, and oh-so awkward.

Is it me? Have I suddenly lost all rhythmic ability? Or does Kenneth’s and my chemistry only extend as far as our love of rescue dogs?

“Left foot, Allie,” Thatcher murmurs as I trod on Kenneth’s shiny black shoe for what must be the third time in a two-minute period. A grimace flashes across Kenneth’s face, but it vanishes quickly, replaced by a polite smile.

“Sorry,” I say again, feeling like a broken record. “I’m not usually this uncoordinated.”

“Liar,” Thatcher supplies unhelpfully. The extra chuckle in his voice makes me wish I could stomp onhisfoot instead.

“Truth be told, I’m no Fred Astaire myself,” Kenneth admits, and I could kiss him for being so decent about it. “Would you...” Kenneth’s voice trails off in an endearingly shy way as he steers us awkwardly through a spin that ends with my hair flinging into my eyes. “Would you like to have dinner with me next week? Maybe somewhere less...slippery?”

“This is good,” Thatcher’s voice crackles in my ear. But he doesn’t sound happy that Kenneth is asking me out. If anything, he sounds annoyed. “Now, play it cool, Allie. Say maybe, and don’t be too eager.”

I’m immediately annoyed at Thatcher. He’s been wrong about Kenneth almost every step of the way and evendisappeared on us when we went into the other room. Isn’t this the point of tonight? Isn’t the point to get me a date?Don’t be too eager, my ass…

“How about next Tuesday, at La Cucina di Lucia. Seven o’clock,” I blurt out before Thatcher can chastise me. My heart gallops at my own boldness, a mix of defiance and sheer panic bubbling up inside me.

“Wow, ummm, okay,” Kenneth replies, taken aback. His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, and the warmth in his gaze seems to cool by a degree or two.

Uh-oh. Maybe Thatcher was right. Maybe I’m coming on too strong.

“Too eager, Allie. You’re making him retreat,” Thatcher grumbles and I can practically feel his frown.

But I shake my head, trying to shrug off the bad vibes coming from Thatcher. This was my dance, my chance—and if I’m going to trip over my own feet, I’ll do it on my terms. “Sorry if that’s too direct,” I say to Kenneth. “But if you’re looking to play cat and mouse, I might not be the right girl for you.”

---