Page 51 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“What’s that?” Kenneth asks.

“It’s their specialty here,” I explain. “It’s hard to describe…sort of like an Italian enchilada. Trust me. It’s to die for.”

“What if I don’t eat something that’s in it?”

I shrug and take a slow sip of my wine. “That didn’t seem like such an issue when you ordered beforeIarrived.”

“Allie…” Thatcher’s voice rumbles another warning.

But quickly, Kenneth chuckles and nods in agreement. “Well, touché. You’re right about that. Do you like olives and red wine?”

I reach over and spread some tapenade on focaccia, taking a bite. “Luckily for you, I do.”

“You made your point,” Thatcher growls. “Now move on.”

“Do you know how much the gala made this weekend?” I ask.

“I don’t have the final numbers yet,” Kenneth says, taking a small bite of tapenade himself. “But it sounds as though it was very successful. “Four of the dogs were adopted as of this morning.”

“Oh, that’s amazing!”

“Thank God,” Kenneth muses. “Those events can be fun, but I always end up feeling guilty about the ones I can’t take home.”

“Me too,” I confess. “If it were up to me, I’d adopt them all and live in a fluffy chaos.”

“Sounds...hectic,” he laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Life’s more fun with a bit of chaos,” I shoot back, a grin spreading on my face.

“Chaos is one word for it,” Thatcher’s voice crackles discreetly in my ear. “Try not to let Biscuit chew through Kenneth’s shoes if you take him home tonight, okay?”

I snort. “As if. Biscuit is the perfect gentleman,” I defend, then freeze at Kenneth’s puzzled look staring back at me.

“What’s that?” he asks.

Dammit. Stupid Thatcher yapping in my ear. “Uhhhh… Luckily, Biscuit is a perfect gentleman and not at all chaotic,” I say, trying to salvage the conversation.

“Biscuit is your dog?” Kenneth asks, intrigued now.

“Yes, he’s my little sidekick. He was very sad he couldn’t join us tonight, but I promised to bring him some cannoli back.” I pull out my phone, showing him a picture of Biscuit’s scruffy mug.

“Adorable.” Kenneth nods approvingly. “Seems he’s got his owner’s mischievous streak.”

“Guilty as charged,” I admit, my heartbeat finally slowing to a manageable pace.

This isn’t so bad. Hell, I think I’m actually doing a pretty good job on this date. And Kenneth is kind of charming. Maybe on top of getting the investigative reporter job, I’ll also get a boyfriend out of it, too.

“Stay on track,” Thatcher’s voice is another gentle nudge.

“Admittedly, the olive tapenade is delicious,” I admit as I spoon another generous dollop onto some bread and pop it into my mouth with an enthusiastic nod.

I finish chewing, savoring the rich, salty blend. Then give him a disarming smile. “So tell me a little about what you do,” I say.

Kenneth’s eyes suddenly dart to my mouth, then away—his grin faltering. The jazzy bassline in the background seems to skip a beat as he leans forward, with the most delicate tact.

“Ah, you’ve got a little...right there.” He gestures vaguely towards his own pearly whites.

I freeze, the tapenade suddenly tasting less like heaven and more like mortification. My tongue darts behind my closed lips, fishing for the roguebits of olive from between my teeth. But it’s like trying to perform dental surgery with a blunt instrument.

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