Page 43 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

I head down the hall to where the bathroom is and lock myself inside. The bathroom mirror reflects a slightly disheveled version of me.

I glance at the stack of folded towels on the counter near the sink and figure they won’t mind if I clean myself up a little.

After a quick shower, I wrap myself in a borrowed towel that smells faintly of sandalwood and soap. It’shisscent, unmistakably so, and it does strange things to my pulse.

I put the sweatpants and T-shirt back on, then with curiosity nipping at my heels, I tiptoe down the hallway, my fingers trailing along the wall. To my right is the playroom. Across from the bathroom is, what I assume is Duke’s bedroom based on the colored drawings of dragons taped to the door. Next to that is another closed door. With a glance over each shoulder, I find the cool handle and tug it open, revealing what has to be Thatcher’s home office. I flinch as it creaks open, revealing a sanctuary of secrets. Everything I might need for my story.

I can’t resist a quick peek. The walls are lined with old photos—a younger Thatcher in uniform, medals gleaming against a backdrop of camaraderie and courage. My gaze lingers on a frame holding a picture of a beautiful woman with kind eyes. I pick up the frame from his desk and run my fingers over the image of what must be Duke’s mother. She looks so much like the little boy with his black corkscrew curls and dimpled cheeks. Is this the woman that Thatcher once loved? The woman Duke claims was slain by a dragon? A pang of something like sorrow hits me, and I wonder about the depth of loss behind his stoic exterior.

No, this isn’t about getting to understand Thatcher.This is about a story. An article. I need to dig to get details that I can corroborate for the story. That’s it.

With a deep breath, I lunge for the drawers, jiggling the brass handle of the top drawer, but it doesn’t budge. I try the second one, my fingers fumbling with the locked desk drawers, desperate to find any clue about his secretive life. Still nothing. I try the final drawer, the one at the bottom and it slides open easily; it’s completely unlocked.

This feels like a setup. The other two are locked and this one isn’t? Surely there won’t be anything of value in here. Thatcher isn’t someone who suffers fools.

My eyes land on a newspaper clipping with a smiling photo of Duke’s mother dead center. I look down at the framed photo still in my hand to confirm it’s her. Same black curly hair. Same wide, toothy grin. The headline robs me of my breath.

Deadly Car Wreck Leaves Two Dead.

I fumble for my phone and take a picture of the paper—theVirginia Tribune—along with the date at the top. More than four and a half years ago. With my access to databases, I can no doubt find this article to read on my own time.

As I’m shutting the drawer closed once more, a tiny voice startles me from behind, causing me to jump and nearly drop the picture frame in my trembling hands.

“What are you looking for?” Duke’s voice is soft but carries enough suspicion that I know I need a damn good excuse for being in here.

I spin around, still clutching the picture of his mom in one hand. “I was just um, just... I thought this was my guest room and accidentally came in.”

Duke gives me a skeptical look. “Then why are you looking at my mommy’s picture?”

“Oh. Well, I saw it and after hearing you talk about her,I was curious what she looked like. And then I started...looking for some paper. To draw on,” I stammer, trying to come up with an excuse that would appease a five-year-old.

Duke frowns, clearly not fully believing me. “My dad always says that curiosity kills the cat.”

“Hm, good thing I’m a dog person, then.”

This earns me a little smile as I set the framed photo of Duke’s mother back down on the desk where I’m pretty sure it had been.

“But you’re right,” I say, as Duke takes my hand and leads us out of the office. “Let’s go back and play, okay?”

I close the door behind us and we’re about to cross the threshold of the playroom as Thatcher rounds the corner at the top of the stairs.

I freeze even though rationally I know I’m not caught. Not officially at least. There’s still something in his eyes.He knows. I don’t know how he knows, but he does. This man can read me almost as well as my sister can and holy hell is that unnerving.

“We’re slaying dragons,” I blurt out nervously.

Thatcher regards me carefully, his eyes drifting for a sliver of a second to his office door and the breath stalls in my lungs. “Well, good. Duke could use a sidekick in his dragon-slaying adventures.”

“I’m surprisedyou’renot his sidekick,” I say.

Thatcher’s mouth kicks up briefly, but Duke responds before he can. “That’s because Daddy’s the King! The King never slays the dragon himself. He has his knights do it for him!”

As Thatcher chuckles at Duke’s declaration, I can feel the tension in my body starting to ease. Maybe I overreactedto his presence in the hallway after all. Maybe he’s not suspicious of me.

“Well, in that case, I’m honored to be your knight, Duke,” I say, ruffling the boy’s hair playfully.

Thatcher watches us for a moment, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You know what? I think it’s time for the King to lead his knights into battle for a change, don’t you think?” he declares, picking up a discarded toy sword at the top of the stairs and following us into the playroom.

Once inside the playroom, Thatcher slowly bends to pick up the other sword and hands it to me slowly. “Ready to slay some dragons, Larsen?”

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