Page 52 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Is it gone?” I ask, attempting casualness as I dab at my teeth with a napkin, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

“Almost,” Kenneth chuckles, kind enough to look amused rather than repulsed. “You’ve got this energy about you—all enthusiasm, even for tapenade.”

“Enthusiasm or bad luck with appetizers,” I mumble. I lift the knife, using the reflection to help me free the last offender from my incisors.

“Bad luck makes for good stories,” Thatcher chimes in through the earpiece, a note of mirth in his voice that suggests he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Anyway…I’d tell you more about what I do, but it’s really boring.”

A few tables over, movement catches my eye as I see Abby hunched behind her menu like a spy in a B-movie.

It’s weird enough that she’s been here for twenty minutes and is still studying the menu like it’s a Tolstoy novel. Her hand is uncharacteristically shaky as she grips her phone, the lens of the camera peering out from between laminated pages of entrees and desserts. She glances around furtively; her blue eyes, wide pools of anxiety, reflecting the flickering candlelight from her table.

I clear my throat and feign massive interest in his supposedly boring job. “I’m sure it’s not!”

“Well, as I mentioned before, I’m a hedge fund manager,” he says and my eyes immediately glaze over as he begins talking about his day-to-day.

Come on, Abby, you’ve watched enough detective shows to nail this, I think, hoping the universe will carry my silent pep talk to her. She’s about as conspicuous as an elephanthiding behind a lamppost, but somehow, diners chatter on, blissfully unaware of her covert operation.

“So that’s about as exciting as it gets in my office,” Kenneth says, laughing.

I feel like a deer in the headlights as I realize I have no idea what joke he just made, but I laugh brightly right along with him.

From behind him, there’s a little crash at Abby’s table as she knocks over the small vase of flowers. Kenneth’s brow furrows as he turns around, his gaze locking onto Abby sitting behind him. Any potential stealth she may have had is out the window; she’s practically wearing the menu like a tinfoil hat, her camera phone aimed at us.

“Is that woman taking pictures of us?” Kenneth whispers, alarm tinting his voice with an edge I haven’t heard from him before.

“Oh…um, no. No, she’s probably just admiring the ambiance,” I offer and whip around to give Abby a quick, scathing glare. But even to my own ears, it sounds about as convincing as a dog claiming it hadn’t eaten the homework.

Abby quickly diverts her phone camera, taking a picture of the mural behind the bar, like she has some kind of telepathy and knows what I was saying.

“What is he talking about?” Thatcher asks. “Who’s taking photos of you?”

Kenneth shakes his head, a determined set to his jaw. “No, I’m sure of it. She’s photographing us. Don’t worry, I’m going to call the manager over and have the police handle this.” He reaches for his phone, fingers poised to summon our server.

“The police? That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?” My heart skips a beat, then gallops like Biscuit after a squirrel. Abby in handcuffs? Not on my watch. My mind racesfaster than my pulse, darting through every conceivable excuse.

“It’s not,” Thatcher says, agreeing with Kenneth. “Not if you have a stalker. Is it that boy from the other night? That teenager who robbed you?—”

“No,” I blurt out. “Kenneth, wait!” I reach out and clasp his hand in a move that’s more about restraint than romance. “Let’s not overreact. That’s… that’s actually my sister. She’s um...uh, she’s doing me a favor.”

“Your sister is on our date? Doing you…a favor?” Kenneth blinks, confusion etched across his face.

“Yep! You see, my family has this wacky tradition. We document everything. Birthdays, barbecues, awkward teenage phases—you name it. So I thought, ‘Why not immortalize our first date?’ I mean, imagine showing our grandkids how their gramps wooed grams with charm and a side of tapenade.”

“Oh my God,” Thatcher groans. “Thatisyour sister.”

Kenneth’s mouth opens and closes, his expression hovering somewhere between bewilderment and the dawning realization that perhaps he’s agreed to dinner with a lunatic. “Our...grandkids?”

“Too much?” I wince, offering a sheepish grin. “Okay, maybe just future us, laughing over the memory of tonight. Or tomorrow morning when you brag to your buddies about the quirky girl who made you smile.”

“Right...” Kenneth manages, his phone now forgotten in his hand. “Quirky. That’s one word for it.”

“Quirky, right.” I flash what I hope is my most disarming smile while Kenneth’s gaze darts between me and the suspiciously camera-cozy menu across the room. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat like he just sat on a cactus.

“Look, Allie,” he begins, the creases in his forehead deepening. “You’re...fun. A lot of fun. But this is...well, it’s a bit intense for a first date.”

“Intense?” I echo, feeling the weight of the word squash my playful bravado flat. “I guess I can be a little enthusiastic sometimes.”

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