Page 60 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Before I can respond, he disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. I let out a deep breath. Being alone with Thatcher, wearing his clothes, feels strangely intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I take a moment to survey the room from where I stand—a stark contrast to the chaos of our current state. It’s all sharp angles and meticulous order. Then, my eyes land on his desk. That same framed picture of his late wife, the one I saw at his house, tugs at my curiosity.

I wait until I hear the water turn on, then rush toward his desk. Even though snooping in his office makes my stomach turn with guilt, I have no choice if I want to turn in this story. This might be my only opportunity to be alone in his office.

I grab the stack of neatly organized case files sitting on the corner of his desk and quickly sift through them. Most of them simply look like matchmaking clients. Random headshots of women and a couple men stapled to the exact questionnaireI had to fill out.

I restack them meticulously in the same order, place them back where they were sitting on the corner, and flop down into his chair.

Biscuit gives me a little yip. “Don’t judge me,” I whisper. “You know as well as I do that we need this promotion. It’s everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

Biscuit snorts and turns around to drink from a water bowl Thatcher must have put out for him.

With a sigh, I almost give up when the ajar top drawer of Thatcher’s desk catches my eye.

Whatever he’d been looking at when I came out of the bathroom was stuffed into this drawer. Quickly, too.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I listen for the water, still going strong in the bathroom. “Quick look,” I reason, “just a quick look.” My fingers brush against the cool metal of the drawer handle, a shiver of adrenaline firing through me. The drawer slides open with a hush, as if it’s in on the secret too.

There, staring back at me is a file markedDrakon.

I grab my phone and swipe it open. “Curiosity, don’t you dare kill this cat,” I whisper to myself. My heart does this funny little skip-jump routine, pounding against my ribs so loud I swear it could echo through the office.

The nameDrakonstares up at me from the manila folder, and I can almost hear Biscuit’s mischievous bark egging me on. Inside, papers bristling with codes and names beg for my eyes to scan them, for my brain to piece together the puzzle.

This is a far cry from the matchmaking files left on top of his desk. “Thatcher Bryant, what are you hiding?” I murmur, the thrill of the chase setting my pulse racing.

Just one more minute, I promise myself, quickly snapping pictures of as many pages of the file as I can. I won’t publishthese photos in the story I write. But there’s no time to soak in the details right now.The photos are just so I can read these later, I reason with myself. It’s my first real lead on what Thatcher Bryanttrulydoes with his skill set. Because let’s be honest…these men are not simply running a matchmaking business.

There’s no way in a frozen hell that’s how they’re spending their time. At least notalltheir time.

Click, click, click. The camera shutter sound seemed deafening in the quiet room, though I know it’s all in my head. My hands shake ever so slightly from the electric thrill of what I’m doing. Discovery has always been my kind of adrenaline rush, and this...well, this is like finding the mother lode.

From behind the closed bathroom door, the shower water turns off, launching the office into a sudden silence. The sudden lack of sound snaps me out of my detective trance.

Panicking, I close the folder and shove the desk drawer closed, launching to my feet and flying across the room to where the little kitchen area is.

I grab the electric kettle and fill it with water, a picture of innocence—or so I hope.

“What’d you find?” Thatcher’s voice calls from the doorway.

My heart lodges in my throat. I’m caught. I don’t know how he caught me, but he did. “What?” I croak turn to face him. Sweet ever-loving Jesus. At the sight of him, I’m rendered speechless. He’s standing there in a pair of gray sweatpants…and nothing else. His T-shirt is slung casually over his shoulder as he starts walking toward me.

He crosses into the little kitchen area to join me as hetugs his shirt overhead. Then, pointing to the tea and coffee, he asks, “What’d you find to drink?”

“Oh! Um…” I grab the first tea I see and hold it up, flashing him my best nothing-to-see-here smile, hoping it doesn’t quiver at the edges. “Ginger tea,” I chirp, my fingers clenching the tea tightly in an attempt to hide their slight tremble.

Dammit. I hate ginger. Now I have to drink a whole damn mug of this crap all because I panicked and didn’t take a second to grab the peppermint tea instead.

There’s a pause, just a beat too long, where his green eyes lock onto mine. Does he see through my act? If he truly is a special ops agent, then shouldn’t the soldier in him recognize the covert mission I’d just completed?

Clearing his throat, the corners of his mouth twitch and his brows dip with skepticism. “I thought you hated ginger?”

I swallow, my throat going dry. “How do you know that?”

“You filled it out as part of your intake form.” His tone is gruff, but the slight softness remains, a subtle shift that suggests the thawing of winter ice.

“Right. Yes. Idohate ginger.”

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