Page 64 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Hunter and I are here in the car, watching this damn house for signs of Drakon while Griffin watched Duke for me. He knows that I won’t rest until I see with my own eyes what Hunter witnessed.

“Will you quit that?” Hunter grumbles from the driver’s seat, his eyes never leaving the laptop screen. It’s like he’s got ice in his veins, all cool and collected while I’m over here simmering in my own personal chaos stew.

“Sorry,” I grunt, though I’m not really. My fingers halt their dance, but it’s like they’re itching for something to do, anything to keep them—and me—from unraveling completely.

Hunter’s hands glide over the keys with surgical precision, the soft clicks punctuating the silence. He’s setting up our makeshift command center, ready to jam the cell towers again for this house so that Drakon’s cronies can’t take or make calls from the inside while we’re here to watch. The only space that will be able to receive or make a call or text will be in the yard out front. Hopefully it will flush them out again and we’ll hear more intel.

We have bugs set up all over the area surrounding the house. If there’s a call that happens outside of those walls, we’ll hear it. But unfortunately, it would be too suspicious to continuously jam the signal. We have to be strategic and cautious about how often we do this.

“Jammer’s set,” he announces, a hint of satisfaction in his voice as if he’s personally sticking it to every cell tower in a ten-mile radius.

“Good.” That’s all I manage to squeeze out through lips that still tingle from Allie’s kiss.

What’s wrong with me? Since when does Thatcher Bryant get distracted by a woman during a high-stakes operation?

The last time it happened, I lost her…

Never again. I swallow a gulp of tepid coffee from my to-go cup.

I steal a glance at Hunter, taking in his unflappable demeanor. His scars, like mine, tell tales of close calls and even closer shaves with death. The guy’s a fortress. Me? Right now, I feel about as solid as a house of cards in a tornado.

“Everything okay?” Hunter’s voice cuts through my internal monologue, sharp and probing.

“Never better,” I lie smoothly, snapping back to attention. “Let’s just get this done.”

A nod is his only reply, and we both settle back into our roles. Hunter, the implacable muscle, under-the-radar spy, and me, the guy who’s supposed to be leading this circus.

Tonight, we dance with danger. But dammit if part of me isn’t dancing with the memory of Allie instead.

Two hours pass and the silence in the car wraps around me like a thick blanket, stifling and relentless. The only interruptions are the soft rustlings of leaves brushing against each other outside—nature’s whispers reminding me that the world is still turning, despite the stillness in our little bubble of surveillance.

My fingers have stopped their impatient drumming, now gripping the armrest with a white-knuckled intensity. Eyes prowling the shadows that stretch across the dimly lit street, I can almost feel the darkness breathing, every corner holding a secret, every whisper of movement a potential threat. My pulse ticks up a notch with every passing minute, a silent marking of time in the absence of conversation.

A breeze filters lazily through our barely cracked window, and with it comes another flash of memory from this afternoon, unbidden and unwelcome. Allie’s laughter, light and carefree as it dances through my head, her hands gentle as they smooth over Duke’s hair, tucking a rebellious curl behind his ear. And the way Duke looked up at her, with wide, loving eyes.

My son has no mother. He has no mother because of careless mistakes I made in my career. And Allie providedhim with a flicker of tender maternal warmth that has no business creeping into my thoughts right now.

I need to focus.I shove the image of her smile to the darkest corners of my mind.

I inhale deeply, the cool air filling my lungs, carrying with it the scent of asphalt and the faintest hint of rain on the horizon. Tonight has to be all about the mission. Protect, serve, avenge. Those aren’t just words—they’re the code that etches itself into every scar I carry, every line burrowed in my skin.

For Duke, for the ghost of a life I once thought I’d have, for the shadow of a woman who slipped through my defenses without even trying—I will see this through. Drakon won’t know what hit him.

“Look sharp,” Hunter whispers. “I think we hooked a fish.”

Light spills onto the front stoop as the door opens. A shadow peels itself from the dimly lit concrete, taking the shape of a man as he steps out onto the front lawn of the house, holding his phone out as if he’s seeking a signal.

That’s right, motherfucker. Walk right into our trap.

He’s firing off in Russian, a string of curse words, his voice a hasty patter that sends my pulse into overdrive.

My brain sifts through the static of my rusty language skills. Even though it’s been a few years since I brushed up on my Russian, I can still understand almost every word he’s saying.

I lean in closer to the windshield, listening as Hunter taps on his laptop, hitting record on our bugs.

“Here we go,” I mutter, barely audible.

Hunter’s fingers paused their dance over the laptop keys as he tunes his ear to the conversation outside, theglow from his screen casting ghostly shadows across his concentrating face.

---