Page 4 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

I knew someone was following me from the moment I stepped out into the brisk city air. When you’re in my line of work, you learn not to ignore that prickling sensation on the back of your neck. I’ve had eyes on me enough times to know the difference between paranoia and the real deal. One surreptitious glance over my shoulder confirms that I’m right. Only it doesn’t appear to be some insidious threat lurking in the shadows; it’s a pair of round hazel, curious eyes that are trained on me.

“Okay,” I mutter under my breath, tightening my grip on my to-go paper coffee cup, “time to face the music.”

I make a sharp turn down an alleyway, my boots echoing off the graffiti-stained walls. There’s a method to this madness—alleyways are good for confrontations, fewer prying eyes. I position myself around the corner behind a dumpster and wait, counting the seconds. Sure enough, the soft patter of footsteps crescendos as she rounds the bend, almost on cue.

I pull my gun from my waistband, ensuring the safety is still on and raise it chest height as I step out from the shadows. “Why are you following me?”

I cringe as she spins to face me, her pouty, berry-shaded lips parted in a gasp. “Oh my lord! That’s agun!” she cries with the timbre of a kindergarten teacher.

“Wow, look at you, Detective Sunshine. So tell me…are you lost or just really into following people?” My tone’s casual, but my stance is anything but. I hold firm with the gun raised, waiting for her to stumble over some lie. But she stops short, blinking up at me with an expression that’s part surprise, part chagrin.

“Following you?” Her voice has that high-pitched quality of someone caught red-handed. She laughs—a nervous kind of laugh—and then looks away, searching for an escape route that isn’t there. “No, no, I...I was...”

“Let’s cut to the chase.” I step closer and see her swallow hard.Good. Keep her on her toes.“You’ve been tailing me since we both exited the coffee shop. What’s your game?”

She tugs at the strap of her bag, clearly buying time, and I can tell she’s not used to being cornered. Most folks aren’t. Then again, I’ve learned not to trust anyone. Especially some cute brunette playing innocent. I’ve seen firsthand how the doe-eyed Bambi can be trained to lie through their teeth and turn into the deadliest assassin in the room in a blink of those mascara-laden eyes.

I’m absolutely not falling for that act.

“Who are you?” I demand, not unkindly, but firmly enough to show I mean business. I can see the wheels turning behind those wide eyes, the cogs of her brain grinding as she sizes up whether to run or spill as she stares down the barrel of my gun.

“Okay, okay...” She exhales sharply, a half-defeated chuckle escaping her lips. “This is going to sound strange, but?—”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and I notice for the first time how the setting sunlight catches in her wavy hair, turning it into liquid amber. There’s this playful glint in her hazel eyes that makes them shimmer like two drops of top-shelf whiskey. The sundress she’s wearing clings to her petite frame in a way that’s casual but deliberate, like a flag staked on the territory of her curves.

“I’m waiting.”

“Look,” she starts, tipping her head back to meet my gaze with a confidence that’s almost disarming. “I saw you back there, in the café. You were like some kind of cabernet Cupid, helping that girl with the spilled wine connect with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that so?” She caught me red-handed. That in itself isn’t anything new. People overhear me from time to time helping out dates in my matchmaking business. But I’m shockingly good at blending in and being forgettable.Usually.

A perk of my previous life as a Navy SEAL.

“Absolutely.” She nods, her voice laced with mischief. “And here’s the kicker—I need your help, too.”

“You need my help?” I can’t help the half laugh that escapes me. “With what, exactly?”

“Finding my soulmate.” Her declaration is bold, and she delivers it with a dramatic flourish of her hand, like a magician revealing a particularly impressive trick.

“Your soulmate,” I echo flatly, not sure whether to be amused or concerned for her mental health. But as ridiculous as the notion of soulmates is, there’s something aboutthe way she says it—with absolute conviction—that hooks me.

“Yep!” She pops thepas if it’s the most natural request in the world. “I’m assuming you’re some sort of matchmaker on a mission based on what I saw back there. Which you’ve clearly got a knack for, and let’s face it, I could use all the help I can get.” Her laugh is self-deprecating but charming, and it suddenly feels like I’m being pulled into a scene from one of those rom-coms my late wife used to force me to watch with her.

The memory slams into me like a bullet to the chest, fast and hard and just as painful.

“What makes you think I’m a matchmaker?”

I don’t tell her that she’s dead-on. I retired from my military career after my wife passed and I was left with a baby boy to care for. Suddenly, being in the line of fire on deadly missions wasn’t as appealing when a helpless baby was relying on me to come home every night.

And lucky for me, my best friends and ex-special forces team joined me in my matchmaking business when their contracts were up, too.

Now, we run our little empire with the same precision as we would a mission, using our military skills to help our clients findThe One. And it turns out a little military strategy goes a long way.

And I’m proud to say that I have a one hundred percent success rate.

But even so, anonymity is key to every successful mission. This petite woman making me while on one of my client’s dates isn’t only bad for business.

It means I’m fucking slipping.

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