Page 36 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“No, not at all,” Kenneth says quickly. “I’m just surprised. There’s usually this whole song and dance before we solidify a date and time. It’s refreshing to meet a woman who, um, knows what she wants.”

“Thank you,” I say pointedly, hoping Thatcher heard every word of that. “So, does seven o’clock next Tuesday work for you?”

“I think so…” he says, his words trailing off. “I’ll check my schedule tonight and let you know.”

There’s nothing innately wrong with his words, but there’s a sudden coolness that sits wrong with me. Before I can respond, a firm hand taps Kenneth on the shoulder and Thatcher’s low, insistent voice is no longer in my earpiece,but standing beside me. “May I cut in?” he asks Kenneth, though it’s more of a command than a question.

“Uh, sure,” Kenneth stammers. Though he seems surprised at the interruption, he manages to step back, a polite nod disguising his confusion.

Thatcher sweeps me into his arms and fox trots us away from Kenneth. “Thatcher, what are you?—”

“Saving you from another foot catastrophe,” he mutters as we fall into step, his lead undeniable. The confidence in his movement is a stark contrast to the clumsy shuffle I’ve been enduring with Kenneth and for the first time all night, I wonder if it wasn’t my fault that I kept stumbling and stepping on him. It’s hard not to notice how well our bodies sync, mine and Thatcher’s.

His grip on my waist tightens just enough to be distracting. “You’re not taking this seriously,” he whispers, his cheek pressed to mine and the heat of his breath against my ear. “Why hire me if you’re going to ignore everything I say?”

Annoyance flares within me. “Ignore you?” I hiss. “You disappeared for like fifteen minutes on me!”

“I got caught chatting with a couple of the event coordinators and couldn’t escape them. I turned off my microphone so I wouldn’t distract you and figured you’d be fine for a few minutes. But silly me for assuming.”

“Iwasfine,” I say. “I got the dance. And he asked me out, didn’t he?”

“Sure and then you blew it by acting too eager.”

“I don’t like games and playing hard to get isn’t my style. I thought the whole point was that you didn’t want to change me?” I shoot back, my words quick, clipped. Our eyes lock into an intense stare that sends an unexpectedshiver down my spine. This quiet but heated argument feels almost intimate, our faces inches apart.

“It’s not playing hard to get. It’s…it’s…not diving in headfirst without thinking,” he snaps, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes my heart race.

“Maybe I’m tired of overthinking everything,” I retort, trying to match his steely resolve with my own fiery defiance.

Before either of us crafts another comeback, the music shifts into a slow, sultry melody that wraps around us like a warm breeze.

We both go stoney and I freeze, ice replacing my spine. Thatcher hesitates for a fraction of a second before drawing me closer, his hand gliding around the small of my back. Our bodies align, and suddenly we’re swaying in perfect harmony to the languid beat.

“See? Not so difficult when you find the right rhythm,” he murmurs.

“Is that a metaphor for life or just dancing?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood, but my voice comes out way softer than I intend.

“Could be both,” he answers, his voice deepening. My eye travels over the faint scar on his jaw that holds the secret to a story I suddenly want to know every detail about.

My breath hitches as Thatcher leans in, his intent clear in his half-closed eyes. But then he stops, hovering on the edge of a moment that feels like it could redefine everything. My chest heaves, caught between disappointment and relief when he stops just short of kissing me.

“Kenneth is watching us,” Thatcher whispers, his nose so close it barely grazes my own.

The spell breaks, and I glance over to see Kennethindeed looking our way, a contemplative expression etched onto his face. Reality rushes back, reminding me of the pretense, the earpiece, my article, and the job at hand.

“That’s why you asked me to dance? To make him jealous?” I search his green gaze for something beyond the strategic coach I’d hired.

The intensity in Thatcher’s green eyes wavers. For a moment, the gala, the music, even the swish of elegant gowns around us fade into a haze of irrelevance. My heart pounds, eager for his answer.

“I had to do something. He was going to ghost your Tuesday night date if I didn’t.”

I swallow, ignoring the stab of pain at his admission. “Are all men really so fickle? That one second he had plans to ghost me but then one new man shows me interest andbamhe wants me back?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of jealousy. Most of us don’t like to share our toys.”

Anger fumes in my chest, boiling to dangerous levels. “Right.Toys. That’s all women are, right?”

“Allie, that’s not what I mean?—”

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