Page 73 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

The night air does little to cool the heat flushing my cheeks. The buzz of adrenaline is loud in my ears, mingling with a strange mixture of frustration and gratitude towards Thatcher as we rush toward my car. Why does he have to be so frustratingly obtuse? One second he’s all stoic and dismissive, the next he’s throwing punches to protect me.

“I had that under control, you know?” I say, glaring at him as he opens the passenger door of my car and gestures for me to get in.

“This ismycar. I’m not riding as a passenger in my own car.”

“Yes you are,” Thatcher demands. “I’m driving you home.”

“Only if you tell me why you flew off the handle back there.”

“He put his hands on you,” Thatcher growls.

“He grabbed my arm to stop me from leaving! He wasn’t assaulting me.”

“Not yet, he wasn’t.”

Exhaling a frustrated breath, I get in the car, knowing to choose my battles as Thatcher crosses around to my driver’s side and gets into my driver’s seat.

“Fine. He wasn’t assaulting me yet. But was punching him really necessary?” I ask as he adjusts my seat back. “I’ve been called a lot worse than a cockteasing bitch before, you know?”

As Thatcher slows to the stop sign, his head whips around to face me at this admission. The concern on his face is genuine but the rest of his expression is unreadable. “I’m going to need all the names of anyone who’s called you a bitch or worse.”

“Why? Are you going to go punch every one of them?”

Jaw twitching, he pulls forward, taking the right turn down my street. “If they’re lucky,” he growls.

The silence that follows on the drive back to my house is awkward, filled with so much unsaid and everything left unresolved from the other day. He may have just played the knight-in-tarnished-armor, but our last kiss—the one he seems determined to ignore—dangles between us, a question mark heavy in the air.

He pulls into my parking space and I can’t help but wonder how he knew which one was mine. I scramble out of the passenger seat and slam the door shut, stomping up my front stoop and fumbling to get my keys out and shove them into the front door to unlock it.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Thatcher calls after me, his voice a mix of irritation and something else—something I can’t quite pin down.

With a frustrated sigh, I whip around to face him. “You know, for someone who acts like they don’t give a damn, you sure have a funny way of showing it!”

He closes the gap between us with a few determined strides, green eyes blazing with that same controlled intensity I saw right before he decked Jason. “I’m not going to apologize for caring about you,” he says, jaw set stubbornly.

“Caring about me?” I throw my hands up, exasperated. “You kissed me—and then acted like it didn’t happen! You send me constant mixed signals, and then you go all caveman on my date? Which is it, Thatcher? Do you want me, or don’t you?”

“It’s not that simple…” The words hang heavy between us, our breaths mingling in the balmy warmth of the evening. I search his face for any sign of the vulnerability I know lurks beneath that rugged exterior.

“How so?”

“Dammit, Allie...” His voice softens, and for a fleeting moment I see the man behind the mask—the one who kissed me so fiercely it stole my breath away. But he shakes his head, reverting to his usual gruffness. “This isn’t about what I want.”

“Isn’t it?” My voice cracks—a mixture of anger and something dangerously close to heartache. “Because it feels like you’re toying with me.”

We stand there, the two of us locked in a silent standoff, the city’s distant hum, the only sound that dares to break through. Then, without warning, Thatcher steps forward and cups my face in his rough hands, his touch igniting a spark that threatens to burn through all my defenses.

“Thatcher—” I start to protest, but the words dissolve into nothing as his lips crash against mine.

“Invite me in,” he asks, his mouth moving against mine. “Tell me you want me, too. Or if not, I’m out of here for good.”

“I want you to come in,” I whisper.

I barely get the words out when his mouth is on me again. The world tilts, and suddenly I’m being lifted off the ground, the familiar sensation of his kiss enveloping me in a whirlwind of desire.

Thatcher carries me effortlessly, striding towards my apartment as if he’s done it a thousand times. As we reached my front door, our fight still echoes in my ears, but now it’s drowned out by the thunderous beat of my heart and the undeniable truth that, whether I like it or not, Thatcher Bryant has become my storm to weather.

Chapter 20

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