Page 68 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Thatcher’s reply takes an extra moment to come through as those three dots appear beside his name. Finally, my phone buzzes.

Thatcher:

It was unprofessional of me to put you in that position.

Well, okay then. Message received, Thatcher.

I try to ignore the gaping feeling at the base of my throat as I type my response.

Allie:

Okay. I’ll text Jason and see if he’s available on such short notice.

There we go. I guess we’re tucking that kiss into a tightly locked box and burying it.

But inside, it’s like a tornado’s tearing through my chest. I’m torn between wanting to grab Thatcher by the shoulders and shake the truth out of him and just playing it safe, keeping our interactions strictly business.

I pull up the number Jason gave me two days ago and send him a quick message, fully expecting that he won’t be available on a random weeknight like this.

To my surprise, Jason responds back quickly.

Jason:

I can be there at 8.

I stare at the message.

He can be there at eight.Tonight.

Huh. Well, that’s surprising. In my experience, most men aren’t so…I don’t know…forthright? There’s usually games. Hard to get. A standard three days between seeing me and calling again.

I confirm with Jason that I’ll see him there, then toss my phone onto my bedside table. I slide a quick glance at the notes I’ve taken for my story so far.

This is probably for the best. If I go through with my story, I’m effectively exposing Thatcher and his clandestine business. While I’m being careful to not legally break the NDA, there’s no doubt that I’m not acting in the spirit of it.

He’ll never forgive me.

“Act professional, Allie. You have a job to do,” I remind myself, trying to shake off the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Because when this all goes to hell, I’m going to need to remember this moment here. The moment Thatcher chose to keep me at arm’s length.

Biscuit offers a sympathetic lick to my hand, and I can’t help but laugh. “You’re right, buddy. I shouldn’t want someone who doesn’t want me back.”

Even still, frustration coils in my stomach. Dismissed. Undervalued. Those feelings stew within me, hot and bitter, like coffee left on the burner too long. With a huff, I pivot away from my modern dating woes and toward the enigma that is Thatcher Bryant.

“Fine, Thatcher,” I whisper to the empty bedroom, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. “You want a strictly professional relationship? You’ve got it.”

With an hour to spare before I need to start getting ready, I open the Nexus database and type in Jenna Bryant’s name. Thatcher’s late wife—a tragedy wrapped in whispers and shadows. The search results are a mix of articles, each one hinting at a tragic past shrouded in secrecy. As I click through the different sources, a feeling of unease settles in my stomach, as if there was something lurking just beneath the surface of her story. The somber obituary gives me nothing detailed about her death. The initial reports were vague, at best. But still, something nags at me. A feeling in my gut there’s more to this than a young mother passing away tragically in a car accident.

My fingers idly scroll through news articles, searching for any shred of information that could lead me to the truth. And then, like a breadcrumb falling into my lap, I stumble upon an article about Jenna’s car accident. It’s only one small line about the other party involved. The assistant to the Russian ambassador had been in town on business and had a heart attack behind the wheel, crashing head on into Jenna Bryant. Neither party survived.

The man in Thatcher’s Drakon file is a Russian terrorist. And now the man who killed his wife also happens to be from that country?

That’s far too coincidental.

My heart races with excitement as I delve deeper into the rabbit hole of this revelation, wondering if it could finally be the missing piece to solving Jenna’s mysterious demise.

Alexei Andreev. I type his name into the search engine next. Not much is written about him in US papers, so I expand my search internationally.

My screen fills with images of the stern-faced man with ice-cold blue eyes staring back at me. Alexei Andreev wasthe right-hand man to one of the main US Ambassadors for Russia. Together with the United States, they were working toward stricter visa restrictions to help tighten illegal drug and gun running in and out of our countries.

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