Page 50 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Hi, Allie. You look great,” he says, pulling out a chair for me with old-school charm.

“Thanks,” I reply, settling into the seat and giving a silent thank you to Abby for insisting on making me borrow her red dress.

“Don’t forget to repay the compliment,” Thatcher’s voice is already in my ear and I cringe.

“You clean up pretty nice yourself,” I say to Kenneth, feeling a little bad that it didn’t occur to me to complimenthim. Unfortunately, my mind is on one man and one man only: Thatcher.

I’ve been thinking nonstop about him since our self-defense lesson. The way we stood so close. The way I could have sworn I felt him smell my hair. Goose bumps rise on my arms and I brush them away with the palm of my hand.

“Only on special occasions,” Kenneth quips, raising an eyebrow playfully as if this date were an event worth marking on calendars.

“Compliment something specific next time,” Thatcher scolds me. “Just like women, men like to feel as though you really see them and notice the small things. Like his cuff links.”

Kenneth didn’t seem to have a problem with my compliment, I think to myself. The night’s only begun and Thatcher is already getting on my last nerve.

“I especially like your cuff links,” I begin, attempting casualness as I scan the room for any sign of Abby. “They’re very…um…fancy.”

His smile widens and he straightens the sleeve of his suit, primping. “Thanks so much. I got them when I was in London last year at an estate auction.

“Mmm,” I say with a nod, peeking over Kenneth’sshoulder for where my sister might be. Instead, I catch a glimpse of Thatcher sitting in the farthest back corner.

Where the hell is Abby? As per our plan, she was supposed to arrive twenty minutes before me. I had called ahead to request specific tables for each of us.

Being a food reviewer does have its benefits now and then, I suppose.

My eyes skate over couples nestled in shadowed booths, friends laughing over shared secrets, but I don’t see that sister of mine snapping sneaky photos anywhere.

Finally, I spot her over Kenneth’s shoulder. On the other side of the restaurant—nowhere near the table I requested. I see the crown of her head peeking out from behind her menu.

“Are you looking for someone?” Kenneth’s question pulls me back, his gaze curious.

“Uh, no. Just admiring the decor,” I fib, thankful for the low lighting as I feel my cheeks warm. “I love what they’ve done with the place.”

“Did they renovate recently?” he asks.

“Last year, actually,” I say, perking up. “The owners retired and their daughter took over. She revamped the menu, still using her mother’s family recipes, but she wanted it to have a more trendy, contemporary feel to it.”

“Mission accomplished,” Kenneth says. “I’ve never come in here because I thought it was sort of a hole-in-the-wall. I had no idea how beautiful it was.”

“Nicely done with the banter,” Thatcher compliments me. “Thatalmostfelt natural.”

Oh how I wish I could reply back to that smug bastard. Instead, I clear my throat as our server comes by and sets down an olive plate, then holds out a bottle of red wine to Kenneth to approve.

After his nod, the waiter opens the bottle and pours him the first taste.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Kenneth says. “I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of red for us as well as the warm rosemary tapenade.”

It takes every ounce of my effort not to groan. I hate when men order on my behalf. Even when it’s only wine. What if I wanted to order fish for dinner and now I’m stuck with this heavy Nero d’Avola? Plus, there’s this patriarchal assumption that comes along with ordering for a woman that implies I don’t know enough about wine to order correctly.

In actuality, I’ve been aching to order the mushroom pappardelle. It’s all I’ve thought about since I invited Kenneth here for dinner. It’s my absolute favorite dish, even though it’s not usually as talked about. True foodies know it’s the secret weapon here at the restaurant, far better than any bolognese or lasagna.

I force a smile. “As long as I get to choose the next bottle,” I say.

“Easy, Allie,” Thatcher warns in my ear. “I’m sure he didn’t intend to insult you by ordering.” I’m impressed by how easily he can read me. Or maybe I’m justthattransparent.

I look at the server as he pours us each a glass of wine. “Could we also get the baked crespelle as a starter?”

“Of course,” the server says with a nod.

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