Page 63 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Duke’s face falls into an exaggerated pout, his lower lip jutting out comically as he gives his dad the most pathetic puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen. “Um…well, a cookie will make me happy. And I won trivia in school today?—”

“Nuh-uh,” Thatcher tuts. “You already got the toy plane for that win. What other reason do you have for the mission?”

“Er…” Duke nibbles at his bottom lip, trying hard to think of something.

“Oh! I know!” I squeal and bend to whisper into Duke’s ear.

His face lights up in an adorably irresistible way and he repeats almost word for word the answer I gave him. “Because it’s important to keep up morale within the platoon! That’s why Operation Cookie Jar is so important!”

I smile proudly as Thatcher shakes his head with a chuckle. “All right, Private. I’ll ignore the fact that you got some intel from behind enemy lines?—”

“Enemy lines!” I shriek. “I thought I was being brought in as one of the team!”

“Oh, my team knows not to interrupt Captain Daddy,” he says with a growl in his voice that makes my knees a little weak. For the millionth time in the last ten minutes, I feel the heat go to my cheeks. “As I was saying. Operation Cookie Jar is a go…for one cookie. Do we understand each other, Private?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Duke says then whips around pumping atriumphant fist in the air. “Thanks, Allie! You’re the best!” He throws his arms around me in an enthusiastic hug that makes my heart leap.

I sigh, hugging him back. “Happy to help, kiddo.”

Duke rushes for the counter, climbing on top where a cookie jar is sitting on a shelf. Thatcher makes his way over to me and lowers his voice as we watch Duke take his time picking out the perfect chocolate chip cookie.

“You could join us for dinner tonight,” Thatcher says, and even though his voice is quiet, the question startles me.

“You’re inviting me for dinner?”

“It’s not much. I have chicken and broccoli in the Crock-Pot and a salad.”

My heart melts a little at the vulnerability in Thatcher’s voice. It’s faint…but there. And something tells me he doesn’t allow that sort of vulnerability very often.

The buzzer on the dryer pierces the quiet office.

I glance down at the oversized shirt I’m wearing—its fabric whispering across my skin, a tangible reminder of the unpredictable turns my investigation—and my heart—has taken. The Drakon file, tucked safely back in its drawer, contains secrets I’m determined to unravel. But the emotions swirling inside me are more enigmatic, harder to decode than any classified document.

I want to say yes to dinner with Thatcher. So badly. Maybe more than anything in this world.

Or rather, almost more than anything. The only thing I want more than Thatcher right now…is this promotion. And something tells me as soon as Thatcher finds out what I’m doing, he’s not going to be very forgiving of my own little covert ops mission here.

“I…I can’t tonight,” I say. “I have to work.” It’s not even alie. I do have to work. And I can’t stomach another night of snooping around Thatcher’s house. “Rain check?”

He nods with a smile, but this one doesn’t crinkle his eyes in the same way. “I’ll grab your clothes from the dryer.”

I brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear, allowing myself one last glance across the room where we kissed. This office feels charged with the echo of our laughter and the ghost of that kiss.

Operation Become-an-Investigative-Journalist is still a go. But Operation What’s-Happening-Between-Me-and-Thatcher…that’s a whole different kind of mission.

One that I’m not sure either of us is equipped to handle.

Chapter 17

Thatcher

“Focus, man, focus,” I mutter under my breath, trying to wrestle down the memory of Allie’s lips on mine. In the last several years running this business, I’ve never been tempted by one of my clients. Never.

But Allie is different.

The dashboard under my fingertips turns into an impromptu drum, each tap a desperate attempt to steer my thoughts back to the mission. That’s what matters. Not the fact that my heart’s still doing a stupid little tap dance on top of my rib cage.

The stakeout.

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