Page 53 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Enthusiastic,” he repeats with a hesitant nod, rising from his chair. “Right. So, I think I’m going to...call it a night. Early meeting tomorrow, you know?”

Yep. That tracks. I can’t say I blame him.

I think if I found a guy photographing my first date, talking about us being grandma and grandpa, I’d have an “early meeting” too.

“Of course,” I chirp, overcompensating with a laugh that sounds more hyena than human.

Kenneth offers a final tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. With an awkward wave, he launches to his feet—and that’s when things go from sitcom to slapstick real quick.

“Kenneth, look out—” I start, but it’s too late.

In his dash for escape, Kenneth collides with a solid wall of man clad in black pants and a gray, soft-looking henley shirt: Thatcher. They both grunt, a tangle of limbs and apologies as Kenneth rebounds off Thatcher’s broad chest.

“Sorry, man. Didn’t see you ther—” Kenneth’s mumble cuts off as recognition flickers in his eyes.

“Wait…you’re the guy from the gala,” Kenneth says, regaining his composure. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Life’s full of surprises,” Thatcher says dryly, and his gaze slides to me for a heartbeat before returning to Kenneth.

“Surprises or psychos,”Kenneth adds stiffly, then sidesteps Thatcher with the agility of someone dodging a speeding bike. “Seriously, what’s going on here?”

“Nothing!” I squeak. But before I can come up with a decent excuse, Kenneth puts his hands up and backs away from both of us.

“You know what? You can have her, buddy. I’m out of here.” Without another word, he makes a beeline for the exit, disappearing into the night.

“Smooth,” I mutter to myself, sinking back into my chair as the jazz band picked up a tune that sounded suspiciously like “Another One Bites the Dust.”

Thatcher slides into Kenneth’s abandoned chair. “Care to explain why your sister is here taking photos? When it explicitly says in your contract no one is supposed to know about what we’re doing here?”

“Ummmm…” My heart hammers a frantic beat within my chest. There’s no mistaking the edge in his gaze—the sharpness can only mean trouble.

Big trouble.

“Hi, Thatcher?” Abby chimes in before I can fumble an excuse. She tugs a chair over from another table and sits between us.

“Abby,” I warn, giving her a look that screamsdon’t, but my sister barrels on like a freight train powered by righteousness.

“This is my fault. Allie and I always cook dinners together on Tuesday night. So when she told me she had to cancel tonight because she had ‘tons of work’”—she air-quotes with such exaggerated sarcasm, it’s a miracle her fingers don’t cramp—“Iknewshe was lying. I followed her here and took those photos to prove to her I knew she was lying to me. I didn’t expect to catch her on a date.” Abbythen pauses, tilting her head in feigned confusion. “Actually…wait. What areyoudoing here?”

Hot damn. My sister deserves a freaking Academy Award.

Thatcher looks slowly between us. “Matchmaking,” he states flatly after a heavy sigh. “I’m here on Allie’s date with her because I’m her matchmaker.”

“You’re amatchmaker?” Abby repeats incredulously. “I thought you were like, a Green Beret or something way more badass.”

He exhales a quick chuckle. “Nope. Just your run-of-the-mill ol’ matchmaker.”

Abby looks at me, blinking. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“Um…well?—”

“That’s my fault, too,” Thatcher says. “All our clients sign NDAs to protect the company and our clients’ anonymity. So…” Thatcher continues, looking back over to me, “the whole thing you told Kenneth about documenting the date for posterity was made up?”

When I don’t respond immediately, Abby’s eyes go momentarily wide for a second, encouraging me. “Yep,” I bluff. “When Kenneth said he was going to call the police, I jumped on the first lie I could think of to protect her.”

Abby shrugs, her poker face better than any bluff I can muster. “Allie made that up to cover for me.”

“Is that so?” Thatcher’s eyes flicked between us, searching for the telltale signs of deceit. But thank goodness for Abby’s stoic nurse face—it was like trying to read a brick wall. “Why wouldn’t you just say that was your sister and you don’t know why she’s taking pictures?” Thatcher presses further.

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