Page 37 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“May I cut in?” Kenneth’s voice slices through the tension like a cold draft, and I turn to find him extending a hand toward me with a practiced smile.

“Of course,” I reply, more out of reflex than desire, my earlier curiosity about Thatcher’s potential feelings for me now replaced with a sense of duty. This isn’t about dating. It’s not about Kenneth. It’s about extending this undercover mission to get the most information for a killer story.

Get the story.

Get my promotion.

And get out.

As I settle into Kenneth’s arms and we begin to move to the music, my mind races.

“Something wrong? You seem...elsewhere,” Kenneth observes, his brow furrowing slightly beneath his well-groomed dirty blond hair.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head as if I could dislodge all thoughts of Thatcher. “Just...you know, lots of animals needing homes. It weighs on you.”

“Indeed.” Kenneth nods solemnly, but his eyes don’t quite match the gravity of his tone. They were probing, analyzing, like he’s trying to read the subtitles of my inner turmoil.

I force a chuckle, hoping it sounds genuine. “But hey, it’s not every day you get to danceandmake a difference, right?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees, spinning me a little too enthusiastically, reminding me that while my feet might be on the dance floor, my head—and possibly my heart—are somewhere else entirely.

“So about Tuesday—” he starts, but I shake my head, Thatcher’s words from earlier weighing on me.

“Sorry if I was too forward?—”

“I’ll meet you there at seven.”

Chapter 11

Thatcher

I did my job tonight. And did it well.

Maybe too well.

No, that’s stupid. There is no such thing as a jobtoowell done. If Kenneth and Allie hit it off right away, that only means I get paid a ton for less work. That’s how it should be.

So why do I feel like such utter shit?

My mood has soured more than the fancy craft sour beers being served tonight.

Thirty minutes later, Allie and Kenneth have paused from dancing to refill their champagne glasses.

“Oops!” I hear her little squeak in my earpiece. I glance over the shoulder of Mrs. Lanaham, the sixty-eight-year-old board member who’s been chatting my ear off for ten minutes about the importance of high-quality cat food, just in time to catch sight of Allie’s elbow knocking the server’s tray of filled champagne flutes.

I’m halfway across the room, way too far away to attempt to help and instead I have to watch helplessly asthe entire tray of champagne flies out of the server’s hands, crashing to the floor in a spray of bubbly liquid and shattered glass.

“Oh my God! Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Here, let me help!”

Allie reaches for a napkin that’s on the table beside her and tries to mop up some of the spilled drinks.

“Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Lanaham,” I say, then turn away so I can speak to Allie without looking like a lunatic.

“Breathe, Allie,” I whisper into the microphone. “It’s okay. The servers here have dealt with far worse, I’m sure.”

“Oh, but…oh no, glass is everywhere!” she cries and I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or talking aloud to herself.

“I know, that’s why you should leave it to the staff to clean up?—”

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