Page 55 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

And what’s worse, we had a great time. Allie’s smart. And funny. And cultured. And so fucking cute. And not in a way that she’s trying to be. She justis.

“Thatcher, trust me! It’s perfect,” she says, clipping her rollerblades in. “I get to show off my athletic prowess and Ican bring Biscuit to attract other dog lovers. And I can literally bump into potential dates, right?”

“Thebumping intois exactly what I’m worried about,” I murmur, eyeing Biscuit, who is practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of zooming around on wheels. “You’re one of the most accident-prone people I’ve ever met,” I say, rising from the bench after strapping on my rollerblades. “Plus…are we in 1998? Does anybody rollerblade anymore? Why couldn’t we ride bikes like a normal human?”

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Allie insists. “Besides, Biscuit can’t run beside a bike. He could get hurt,” she says, already standing confidently in her own skates, Biscuit’s leash in hand. She looks natural, like she’s done this a million times before. I almost begin to trust her when her petite frame sways slightly. I launch forward, catching her as she adjusts to the balance herself on wheels.

“Oops!” she giggles. “It’s been a while. I’ve gotta get me sealegs back,” she says in a mock pirate voice.

“How long is ‘a while’?” I ask.

She shrugs. “A couple of years.”

I close my eyes and exhale. This woman. This woman is going to be the death of me.

I grab my backpack, putting it on my shoulders. “I’ll be right behind you with the first aid kit,” I say as I push off the ground, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline I usually reserve for missions, not midday leisure activities.

She rolls her eyes. “We won’t need it!” Allie glides ahead effortlessly, laughing as Biscuit tugs her forward with enthusiasm. I hang back, watching them while keeping a safe distance and adjust the earpiece within my ear.

She moves with an ease that surprises me; she’s good at this—really good. Her wavybrown hair flies behind her, and her laughter echoes across the park. It’s a sound that does something strange to my chest, something that feels suspiciously like warmth.

“Keep up, slowpoke!” she calls out into her own earpiece, her voice playful and teasing.

“Hey, I’m giving you your space,” I call out, picking up speed. I need to stay close enough to jump in if Mr. Right shows up, but far back enough to look unattached. It’s a delicate balance, much like the one keeping me upright on these damn skates.

“Space, huh?” she says back, a sly smile stretching across her face. “Well, watch this space then!”

She picks up even more speed, pushing herself with a fearlessness that makes my protective instincts kick in. I scan the area, always on the lookout. But maybe, just maybe, I’m also admiring how the sunlight dances in her hair and the way she throws her head back in delight.

Not that I’d ever admit it.

Not to myself.

Anddefinitelynot to her.

Twenty minutes later and she’s only gotten one look from a man on a bicycle. She smiled and waved at him, but he returned her look with a grimace reserved for the smell of a swamp.

Not that it bothered Allie.

She kept right on grinning and sped up to pass him, Biscuit racing beside her happily.

It’s a puzzle, really. Allie, with her pixie-like charm and whip-smart banter, should have eligible bachelors lined up like ducks at a shooting gallery. I swerve to stop a runaway soccer ball before it rolls into the pond that the trail surrounds. A kid comes running up and grabs the ball, waving at me before charging back to thesoccer field.

What gives? Why is it so hard to find someone who gets her? Who appreciates the spark in her eyes when she talks about her latest book obsession or how she can turn a simple walk with Biscuit into an adventure?

“Hey there!” A voice cuts through my internal monologue, and I glance ahead to see a jogger quickening his pace beside Allie. He’s got that easy, loping stride of a man who’s no stranger to the runner’s high.

“Hi!” Allie’s response is friendly, but she keeps her focus forward, expertly navigating a slight dip in the pathway.

“I haven’t seen anyone rollerblade in years.” He’s got a tone that’s trying for casual but lands somewhere near hopeful and it makes me bristle, like petting a cat in the wrong direction.

“Would you say it makes mestand out?” she asks pointedly to, I’m certain, make some sort of a point to me.

“Absolutely,” the man says. “Although, I bet you stand out just about anywhere you go.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and mutter, “Charming.”

“Charming,” she repeats. And damn if I didn’t forget she’s like my little parrot today.

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