Page 40 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Bits and pieces,” I admit, feeling a blush creep up my neck. “Thank you, though. For taking care of Biscuit…and me, I guess. Did you… Did I…?” I gesture to the sweatpants I’m wearing.

“That was all you,” he says quickly and I can’t help but smile at the tinge of pink that colors his cheeks. “I provided the pajamas, you did the rest. I figured you wouldn’t want Griffin rifling through your clothing drawers.”

“You figured correctly. What painkillers did you give me? They really knocked me out.”

“Yeah, sorry. It was an acetaminophen codeine blend. But you seemed to need it.”

I nod. “That explains it. On top of everything else, I have intense reactions to codeine.”

“You do? That wasn’t listed on your intake form,” he huffs.

“Well, I didn’t think you would need to know medical information as mymatchmaker.”

He clears his throat and turns back to face the pancakes once more, flipping one in the sizzling pan. “Right. Well, now you know why it’s important to be thorough.Thankfully, your allergy wasn’t more serious or we may have run into an issue.”

“Well, regardless. Thank you. For helping last night.” I wave my bandaged hand in the air. “Do you think it needs stitches?”

Thatcher’s eyes soften for a moment. “No, you’ll be okay, I think. Of course, if you want a second opinion and a real doctor to look at it, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I trust you.” I shake my head and ignore the sizzly feeling in my belly as Thatcher holds my gaze.

“Even still, you may want to get it professionally cleaned and a tetanus shot.” He reaches into a cabinet above his head and pulls out a mug, handing it to me. “Fresh coffee is in the pot if you want any.”

“Thanks.” I lift the pot and pour myself a mug full of the strong-smelling brew. “Can I help with anything?” I ask, trying to shake off the awkwardness settling between us.

“Make yourself at home,” he replies, returning his attention to the three skillets on the stovetop. The sizzle of bacon mixes with the sweet aroma of chocolate chip pancakes and eggs, and I can’t help but feel a cozy sense of belonging as Thatcher flips another pancake with a skilled twist of his wrist. The kitchen hums with a domestic rhythm that’s foreign yet oddly comforting to me. “Breakfast will be ready soon,” he adds.

“Daddy! Can I have juice!” Duke calls from the couch. Biscuit gives a quiet yip of approval from beside his new best friend.

“Sure, buddy,” Thatcher says and starts to set the spatula down.

“I can get it,” I offer and grab a glass from the drying rack beside the sink.

“You sure?”

“I think I can handle one glass of juice,” I quip, opening the fridge and pulling out the carton of orange juice.

“Says the girl who knocked over an entire tray of champagne glasses,” he retorts with a playful grin.

Maybe it was the delightful smells from the kitchen, or maybe, like me, he senses something unexpectedly warm about this strange, yet familiar domestic scene.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of us are sitting at Thatcher’s small circular table.

“Can you pass the syrup, Allie?” Duke’s voice pulls me from my reverie, his green eyes expectant above the rim of his stack of pancakes. I reach for the sticky bottle and hand it over, earning me a grin that is pure sunshine.

“Thank you!” he chirps before eyeing the blank TV. It had been a small argument that Duke wanted the cartoons to be on during breakfast, but Thatcher insisted on turning them off. Thatcher of course won.

“How does this morning’s chaos compare to your usual Saturday breakfast?” Thatcher asks, spooning a hearty helping of eggs onto his plate, his tone casual but edged with curiosity.

“This is so much better than my usual Pop-Tart and coffee,” I chuckle, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “My Saturday mornings often include coffee and reading a book with Biscuit snuggling beside me.”

Hearing his name, Biscuit’s tail swishes against the tiled floor, looking expectantly up at Duke.

“Can I give him some bacon?” Duke begs more than Biscuit.

“Sure,” I say. “But not too much. And no pancakes for him.”

“Remember,” Thatcher chimes in, “Dogs can’t have chocolate.”

---