Page 59 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“You don’t mind watching Biscuit while I clean up?”

He eyes my dog who innocently looks up at Thatcher from across the room.

“Oh, I’ll keep an eye on him, all right.”

Biscuit whimpers as if he understands the meaning behind Thatcher’s words and I clamp a hand to my saturated hip. “Hey, be nice to my baby!”

Thatcher grunts. “Fine. I’m pretty sure Griff keeps Milk-Bones in his desk.”

“Thank you.” I shut the door behind me and peel the soggy yoga pants off my hips, hopping awkwardly on one foot and then the other to kick my clothes off. The wetclothes all land with a slap to the floor and I leave them discarded there, turning on the shower so the water can heat up. There’s nothing worse than being damp and chilly.

I step into the shower and pull the curtain closed, sighing into the steamy heat. I don’t really need to wash myself. Sure, the pond water wasn’t exactlyclean, but I’m also not filthy or anything. Even still, the hot shower feels amazing.

I grab the body wash and squirt some into my palm, inhaling the spicy scent that smells exactly like Thatcher.

A knock at the bathroom door makes me flinch and the dollop of body wash falls to the floor of the shower as I gasp.

“Allie,” Thatcher calls through the door. “I can throw your clothes into the dryer if you want.”

“No!” I squeak, my voice shrill, like I was caught sniffing panties…even though all I was doing was smelling his body wash.

“No? Are you sure?”

“Um…I mean, I’ll bring them out and pop them in the dryer when I’m done!”

There is no way in a frozen tundra of hell that I can let that man into this bathroom while I’m naked—even if it is behind a shower curtain.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind?—”

“I’m sure!”

I exhale when he finally leaves it be and walks away from the door. I suds up my body quickly, not bothering to wash my hair. Then I quickly towel off and pull Thatcher’s sweatpants and T-shirt on, feeling extremely exposed without having any underwear.

Dressed in his clothes, I feel like a kid playing dress-up, the shirt hanging past my hips, sleeves rolled up to myshoulders. There’s no denying the comfort, though—the fabric is warm and smells faintly of cedarwood and lemongrass.

I open the bathroom door, emerging into Thatcher’s office clutching my soggy clothes in a bundle. Thatcher looks up from his desk, jumping the slightest bit, and tucks a file he’d been looking at in the top drawer. His piercing green eyes meet mine while a happy, tail-wagging Biscuit gives a little yip from where he’s sitting on Thatcher’s lap.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. I shift on my feet as his eyes trail over the sight of me swimming in his oversized clothing.

He gives Biscuit a little pat to the head, then sets him back down on the floor. “Little guy wouldn’t stop whining once you shut the door to the bathroom.”

I smother my smile. “He’s definitely a mama’s boy.”

“I can see that.” His eyes fall to my still wet clothes in my hands. “Here, let me take those.” He rises and strides over, lifting the soggy pile from my grasp. His fingers brush mine, sending a spark through my skin and I’m acutely aware of how his sweatpants sag around my hips.

I hastily pull my hand back. “Thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Thatcher’s gaze flicks down briefly before he turns and crosses the room to open a small closet door, revealing a compact washer-dryer unit inside.

“This should only take twenty minutes or so to dry them,” he explains, carefully setting my clothes inside. There’s something intimate in the way he handles my clothes, his large hands moving with unexpected care. I nod, hugging my arms around myself as another awkward silence settles between us.

Thatcher clears his throat, running a hand through his still pond-damp hair. “Well, I’m going to grab a quick shower myself. Help yourself to anything you need. There’s water and snacks in the mini fridge. And a kettle over there where you can make either tea or coffee. It’s instant and tastes like shit, but me and the guys are kind of used to getting by with just the necessities.”

Sucha military thing to say.

I nod, tugging self-consciously at the hem of his T-shirt. He brushes past me towards the bathroom, and I catch a whiff of his woodsy scent. There’s remnants of the shower wash that he probably already used this morning, but something more. Something entirely and innately Thatcher.

---