Page 7 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Sounds like a weird party trick, but hey, I’m game if you are.” I chuckle, trying to ease the tension knotting in my stomach. This story is my one shot, my leap from small-time food-reviewing fluff pieces to something with actual meat on it. But dancing around this NDA is going to make it a whole helluva lot more difficult.

“Discretion is key,” she reminds me, her voice taking on the stern tone she reserves for moments of “serious journalism talk.” “We can’t afford a lawsuit, Allie. Are you sure you can handle this without stepping on any legal landmines?”

“Absolutely,” I assure her, perhaps more convincingly than I feel. “Thatcher may have a face that could launch a thousand ships, but I’ve got a pen that’ll dance circles around his NDA.”

“Good,” she replies, a hint of a smile in her voice now. “Keep it tight, Larsen. And keep me posted.”

“Will do, Chief.” I end the call and toss the phone onto the coffee table. Exhaling a relieved breath, I collapse back onto my couch. Biscuit, my fluffy partner incrime, bounds over with a tennis ball, his tail wagging like a miniature propeller.

“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, buddy,” I say, scratching behind his ears. He responds by dropping the ball and giving me an enthusiastic yip, blissfully unaware of the journalistic minefield we’re about to navigate.

“Thatcher, matchmaker extraordinaire,” I mutter to myself, the corners of my mouth tugging upward. “You’ve met your match in more ways than one.”

“Any culinary preferences tonight, or am I left to freestyle?” my big sister, Abby calls to me, poking her head out from the kitchen. “We can make Caesar salad with spaghetti and meatballs. Or Caesar salad and gnocchi…” There’s a pause as she disappears back into the kitchen and I hear the refrigerator open and close with the clatter of condiments on my shelves. “…also with meatballs. Seriously, do you have any proteinotherthan frozen meatballs?”

I grimace at her. “I’m a food reviewer. I spend ninety percent of my time eating out.”

“I know. And as the big sister to your single ass, I enjoy reaping the benefits of being your plus-one to those free dinners.”

“Hey,yourass is single, too!” I call back, but she’s already ducked back into the kitchen, ignoring me.

Giving Biscuit a final scratch to his chin, I stand and drop the document on top of my laptop. It’s time to regroup and strategize. With a sigh, I leave my work and worries in the living room and enter the kitchen, dropping into a seat at the small island.

Spinning to face me, Abby holds up a box of uncookednoodles and the frozen bag of gnocchi. “So what’s it going to be? Spaghetti or gnocchi?”

“Surprise me,” I answer, my mind still locked on the document waiting for me in the other room. “But no anchovies on the Caesar, please.”

“Barbarian,” she teases. Then with a snort, she grabs a couple cloves of garlic, crushing them with the flat side of a knife. “Besides, youbarelyhave any protein in this house. As if I could evenfindanchovies in your fridge.”

She tosses the chopped garlic into a hot frying pan with oil and it sizzles to life. “Are you sure you want to give up your cushy gig as a food critic? People would kill to have your job.”

I snort and give my sister a look. “They wouldn’t if they knew how little it pays.” I earn what’s barely the equivalent to a part-time job writing my reviews.

The scent of garlic, basil, and tomatoes fills the air as Abby covers the pan and lowers the heat. Then she sidles up beside me, two glasses of red wine in hand. As she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder, the silky strands catch the golden hues of the setting sun streaming through the window. Even though we’re sisters, we look nothing alike. A product of having a tall, dark, and handsome Italian father and a Scandinavian blonde-haired, blue-eyed mother.

Unfortunately for me, Abby won the genetic lottery and got all of my mom’s delicate beauty-queen features. And I got the nondescript mousy brown hair and hazel eyes from Dad.

Abby hands me one of the glasses. “Here’s to threading the eye of the needle while wearing boxing gloves,” my sister says, repeating one of our dad’s old mantras that has followed us through adulthood.

I clink my glass against hers. We both take a sip, the spiced, rich flavor grounding me back to the moment.

“Your editor really thinks you can pull this off despite an NDA?” Abby asks, her voice the soothing hum of a well-tuned violin despite the doubt she’s casting on my chosen career.

I shrug. “Hell,I’mnot even sure I can pull this off. I’ve never written a serious piece for them before…let alone an investigative one undercover.”

“Is this dangerous? I mean, this is the same guy who welcomed you with a glock instead of a handshake,” she points out, arching an elegant eyebrow as she leans against the back of the chair.

I’m shaking my head out of instinct. “He wasn’t pulling the gun for any reason but self-preservation,” I say, recalling his assessing bright green eyes. “He’s not looking to hurt me. He was looking to protect himself.”

“But from what?”

“That’s what I’m going to figure out! And it’s precisely why this story is gold,” I counter, matching her serious gaze with the steel of my own resolve. “Thatcher No-Last-Name isn’t your garden-variety Cupid. There’s a story behind those guarded green eyes, and I’m going to unearth it.”

“Okay, Nancy Drew, but don’t forget he’s more 007 than Prince Charming,” Abby retorts, pausing to take one more swallow of wine before standing to check on the gnocchi. “And if he’s willing to pull a gun to protect himself…don’t you think he might also be willing tousethat gun to protect his secrets?”

That same anxiety as before ripples in my empty belly. I hadn’t really thought of that. Unable to sit still any longer, I hop up and grab the bag of Caesar salad from the fridge, dumping it into a large bowl. “I’ll be careful,” I say as I tossthe lettuce, hoping those three words are enough to reassure my sister.

She levels me with another look as she grabs two plates from my cabinet. “You promise?”

---