Page 58 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Her petite frame shivers slightly, though she keeps a bright smile fixed on her face. Whether from the chill of her soaked clothes or the lie or the adrenaline of being pulled like she was in the Iditarod, I’m not sure. But I know I need to get her warm and dry, fast.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” I ask her again.

Allie shakes her head. “I’m fine, really. But I would appreciate some dry clothes if you have them in your office.”

I give her arm a light, reassuring squeeze, before leading the way toward my office. Thank God it’s only a couple blocks away from the park.

“Come on, cuz,” I tease.

She smiles, but shivers again despite the fact that it’s eighty degrees out today. I wrap my arm securely around her and tell myself that it’s solely to help her out and not the animalistic urge I feel to keep her close.

And to my surprise, she leans into me readily, her arm coming around my back.

With a sigh, she leans in closer, resting her head on my shoulder as we walk in synchronized steps. The warmth of her body grounds me in ways I haven’t felt since Jenna passed away. The sunlight filters through the leaves above us, casting a dappled pattern on the ground as Biscuit dances around our feet. We walk in silence, the only sound the gentle rustle of the trees in the breeze.

I know I should let her go, give her space. This can’t happen…she and I. We are way too different and I have a mission to complete. One that’s already too dangerous for me and Duke. I can’t have another person potentially in the crossfire.

Not again.

But something in me rebels against the idea of letting her go. Does she feel it too? Is this pull between us as undeniable to her as it is to me?

Maybe the only reason I crave the connection we’re sharing in this fleeting moment is because it’s been too long. I haven’t been with a woman in years.

And then, as if sensing my inner turmoil, she lifts her head from my shoulder and meets my gaze with a small, knowing smile that chokes in my throat.

That smile will fucking break me if I’m not careful. Without a word, I unfurl my arm from her waist and separate, stepping back to a more comfortable distance. But the memory of that shared moment lingers in the cavern of my chest; a silent promise of what could be if I dared to embrace the connection.

But I won’t. No, I can’t.

Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all had no idea what he was fucking talking about.

Chapter 16

Allie

We squelch our way across the polished floors, leaving a trail of pond water and loose leaves in our wake. Biscuit, the fluffy instigator of this whole mess, starts running around the office, completely unaware of the drama he caused.

I examine Thatcher carefully as he crosses the third-floor office above the bakery to a wardrobe, grabbing a couple of towels from inside as well as some spare clothes. I shiver as the air conditioner kicks on, blowing frigid air across my wet skin.

Something happened back there. A shift, though I can’t quite put my finger on what exactly changed.

But if I wasn’t mistaken, Thatcher was…tender. And for the briefest moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.

I wouldn’t have stopped him if he had.

And that’s the problem. Iwanthim—this gruff, unreadable, maddeningly attractive man who treats vulnerability like it’s a contagious disease. He’s got walls thicker than a Cold War bunker, and somehow, instead of running theother way like any sane woman would, I’m over here wondering what it would take to climb them.

But we can’t date. I’m one article away from my dream job…and that article entirely hinges upon breaking his NDA. Or at the very least, towing the line. Not to mention the man doesn’t exactly radiate “emotionally available.” He radiates…broody cryptid with a soft spot for five-year-old boys, stray dogs, and stubborn women. And unfortunately, I’m starting to think, despite his protests, I might be his type—and worse, he might be mine.

“Thatcher,” I start.

“Bathroom’s this way,” he interrupts with a grunt, but I catch the hint of a smirk as he gestures for me to follow him. “There’s a shower if you want to use it.”

The door swings open to reveal a small, but clean bathroom, equipped with a shower stall. Thatcher hands me the two towels and the folded clothes, which are admittedly significantly less damp-smelling than what I’m currently sporting.

“What about you?”

He shrugs. “I can shower after you.”

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