Page 70 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Right. I’ll be close by the whole time monitoring the situation...”

As he reviews the protocol, I can’t stop tracing the lines of his face with my eyes. The hard set of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the small scar on his chin. It’s torture being this close and not being able to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin under my palms.

I tune back in when he says, “Okay, Jason’s arriving. You ready?”

I blink and peek around the building just in time to see Jason enter the front door of the restaurant.

Even though I missed almost all of what Thatcher had just said, I nod all the same. “I’m ready.”

Stepping into the dimly-lit bistro, I shake off the cocktail of nerves like raindrops from my jacket. The place is cozy in an overdone sort of way, with vintage posters smirking from brick walls and jazz purring softly through hidden speakers.

“Table for Larsen?” I ask the hostess who smiles back at me with practiced sweetness.

“Yes, right this way. Your plus-one just got here,” she says over her shoulder as I follow her.

My mind is still weaving through Russian bathhouses and coded files, equally snagging on thoughts of Thatcher’s chiseled, rugged face. Each step toward this fake date feels like a betrayal to the story that’s begging to be told.

We wind our way through chattering couples until she pauses at a table where Jason already sits, grinning as if he’s won something.

“Hey, Allie.” He stands, his eagerness brushing against me like static. “You look...wow.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, plastering on a smile that feels more like a grimace. He leans in for a hug that lingers a little too long, his sharp cologne assaulting my senses.

“I’m glad you texted me. I was disappointed when you called off our hike.”

I slide into my seat, creating a necessary gulf between us. Jason’s incessant gaze feels heavy and expectant. I tuck a stray lock behind my ear, craving the comforting snark of Thatcher’s voice over this awkwardness.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Jason asks, waving over the waiter before I can answer.

“Um, I guess a glass of wine to start with,” I say, but he cuts in.

“Do you like red or white?”

Well, at least he’s asking. Unlike the last date I had.

“With fish, I prefer white.”

“Have you had Grüner Veltliner before?” he asks, his eyes on the wine list, rather than on me.

“That sounds great,” I say, placating him. I’ll be lucky if I finish even one glass of wine tonight.

“Are you okay?” Thatcher asks in my ear.

I clear my throat, unsure how to answer him without looking like a crazy person who talks to myself.

“You seem off,” Thatcher says. “Relax. Take a deep breath.”

I try to inhale slowly, but Jason has already launched into a game of twenty questions. “So other than rollerblading with Biscuit, what do you like to do?”

I force a smile. “I’m pretty boring. Kind of a homebody.”

“Oh. Well…you said you liked hiking, right?” Jason tries.

“Um, yeah. I do. I don’t go as often as I’d like, though.” I take a sip of water to cool my nerves.

“Well, maybe we can change that.”

I’m relieved when the wine arrives, interrupting the barrage of questions.

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