Page 69 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Okay, I can see why they would want Alexei Andreev dead. But why Jenna Bryant? Why target Thatcher’s wife?

The words blur and swirl on the page, but one thing is clear: Thatcher’s wife’s death was not simply a random act of violence. It was connected to something bigger, something darker. A chill runs down my spine as I realize that I may have stumbled upon a clue that could finally lead me to the truth behind her untimely demise—it’s only one piece to a large puzzle. And I’m certain Thatcher already knows all of this himself.

“Focus, Allie,” I tell myself, tapping away, searching for any event or place where these Drakon goons might congregate. “There’s got to be something here that connects it all.”

With new determination fueling my research, I lean into the glow of the computer screen, the rest of the world fading away as I chase down the truth—one keystroke at a time.

My fingers dance across the keyboard with a rhythm that matches the racing pulse of my curiosity. I’m on to something; I can feel it in my bones—the same ones that shiver at the memory of Thatcher’s indifference. But there’s no time for brooding; the scent of a story is far more intoxicating.

There’s a couple of Russian restaurants in South Carolina. One locally just outside of Charleston. The other, a deli and bakery in Columbia. That’s a start, I guess.

“Come on, where do you Russian mobsters go to sweatout your sins?” I mutter to myself, scrolling through forums and obscure local blogs. And then, like a beacon cutting through fog, there it is—the mention of a Russian bathhouse tucked away in Goose Creek.

“Gotcha.” The word escapes my lips as a victorious whisper. The thrill of the hunt zaps through me, sharp and sweet. I jot down the address, already picturing myself stealthily navigating steam rooms, eavesdropping on clandestine conversations. My heart thrums with resolve; if there’s even a sliver of a connection to Jenna Bryant’s death, I’ll find it in the vapors of that secluded haven.

Biscuit, sensing my excitement, leaps onto my lap, nearly toppling the tower of papers teetering on the edge of my desk. “Easy, boy,” I laugh.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes with the alarm reminder that I need to start getting ready for tonight’s date with Jason. Ugh, just what I need, a night of feigned interest and awkward small talk. Especially when I’d rather be delving into secrets. But the story won’t write itself—and neither will this date, unfortunately.

Dragging a hand through my wavy hair, I let out a sigh that feels too heavy. There’s a tension coiling inside me as Thatcher’s stoic face flashes in my mind, stirring a cocktail of emotions I’m not prepared to sip on yet.

“Sorry, Biscuit,” I say, reluctantly slipping off my bed as he cocks his head. “Duty calls.” And by duty, I mean the pursuit of truth, dressed up as a flirty evening with a guy who isn’t the one clouding my thoughts.

I stand and sift through my closet until I choose a cute dress. Not too fancy. But nice. Nice enough for an average seafood restaurant.

Smoothing out my casual dress, I steel myself for theevening ahead. With a last glance at the screen—where the digital trail to the bathhouse still beckons—I grab my bag. The investigation will have to wait. For now, I have a date to get through, and come hell or high water, I’ll get through it with the grace of someone who isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Chapter 19

Allie

I get out of my car, smoothing my dress self-consciously as Thatcher approaches. His piercing green eyes seem to see right through me, and I find myself momentarily frozen under his intense gaze. He’s even more handsome than I remember and it’s like a sharp upper cut to my diaphragm, knocking the wind out of me.

“You look nice,” he says simply, his voice low and gravelly. I feel my cheeks flush at the unexpected compliment, cursing my traitorous heart for skipping a beat.

“Thanks,” I manage to reply, hoping I sound more nonchalant than I feel. His tall, muscular frame is imposing in dark jeans and a navy henley that accentuates his athletic physique, the top buttons undone just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his chiseled chest.

I force myself to look away, busying myself with my purse so he can’t see how he affects me.

Get it together, Larsen, I scold myself. The kiss the other day meant nothing to him. He’s made that perfectly clear. But despite my internal admonitions, I can’t ignore theirresistible pull I feel towards him. There’s a magnetism between us that transcends reason or logic.

Clearing my throat, I put on a breezy smile. “Anything I should know before my date gets here?”

Thatcher’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. Is that disappointment I detect in his eyes? Or simply wishful thinking on my part?

“Of course,” he says briskly, back to being all business. “Let’s come over here on the side of the building to get you wired up so I can monitor the conversation.”

I follow him out of sight and lean against the cool brick of the building. As his strong hands gently fit the tiny microphone inside my ear, it’s all I can do not to tremble at his touch. His breath tickles my neck, sending goose bumps across my skin. Can he hear the rapid pounding of my heart?

Being this close to him again unravels something deep inside me, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to confront him about the kiss we shared.

As he finishes tucking the earpiece in my ear, his fingers linger, his touch featherlight and my eyes blink heavily at the feel of his hands on me.

“Allie,” he says simply in that deep voice that never fails to make my knees weak.

I try to play it cool, ignoring the rapid thrum of my pulse. “I, uh, guess we should go over the game plan again for tonight,” I say.

Thatcher blinks as if snapping back to the task at hand. Then he gives me a curt nod, his expression unreadable. We stand there for a beat, the space between us crackling with unspoken words. I hate this strained awkwardness hanging in the air. I want to grab him and kiss him again until we can’t breathe, until we shatter thiswall he’s put up. But I know that’s the last thing I should do right now.

---