Page 79 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“No,” I snap, then force myself to take a calming breath. “What did we just talk about, Allie? I need you to stay here. Where you’re safe.”

I manage to keep my voice level through sheer force of will. The thought of her coming anywhere near Drakon makes my blood run cold. “I’ll call you later with an update, I promise. Lock the door behind me.”

I’m already at her apartment door when her voice stops me short. “Thatcher, wait?—”

And then she’s there, grasping my arm, her lips onmine, kissing me, the cool sheet still wrapped around her body. We stay frozen like that for a couple of beats, the air heavy with all the things I can’t say.

“Just...be careful. Please.” Her eyes search mine, bright with fear and something more. Something I don’t dare put a name to.

I nod, throat tight, knowing with gut-wrenching clarity that despite all my efforts to keep her out of this, tonight has changed everything. Our world has tilted on its axis—and there’s no turning back now.

My hand comes up, brushing her cheek so briefly it might have been imagined. Then I turn, striding out the door without looking back.

Chapter 22

Thatcher

Under the shroud of night, with only the moon as our unreliable witness, we creep towards my house. The rhythmic tap of my heart plays counterpoint to the silence that wraps around us like a cloak. Griffin is a shadow on my left, his footsteps whispering against the turf. Hunter lurks, a silent sentinel, always half a step behind.

“Two o’clock,” I signal, eyes locked on a figure that doesn’t belong in this suburban still life wearing black pants and a hoodie pulled up over their face. A shiver runs down my spine as he lurks outside my house, peeking into my living room window.

Griffin catches my eye and nods, the muscles in his jaw working quietly. Hunter seems to grow taller, if that’s even possible, his broad shoulders set and ready for whatever comes next. We don’t need words; we’ve had countless silent conversations etched in the dirt of far-flung places where words could get you killed.

As we close in, I can feel the tension singing through my veins, slowing the blood flow;slowing my breath. It’s a familiar tune—the adrenaline, the focus, the readiness. My hand signals slice through the darkness: assess, surround, contain. Griffin and Hunter peel off with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Our steps are measured, our breathing controlled.

My mind races ahead to every possible scenario, playing them out in rapid succession. But there’s a part of me that’s holding back, that’s not quite ready for what’s to come.

“Easy now,” I murmur under my breath, mostly to myself. Everything about this feels off—like the punchline to a joke I’m not getting. I shake it off, focusing on the here and now. That’s all that matters. Keep Duke safe. Uncover the truth. Protect what’s mine.

We’re a triangle closing in on the unwanted guest, our formation tight and practiced. My fingers twitch, feeling the absence of a weapon they’ve grown too accustomed to wielding. But we’re not on some dusty battlefield now; we’re home, where the rules are different. And while Griff, Hunter, and I each are strapped with our proper licenses for owning concealed weapons, we’d rather not use them here in my sleepy suburban neighborhood if we can help it.

The shadowy figure shifts, oblivious to the net drawing tighter. Griffin’s almost within arm’s reach now, his presence an unspoken threat. Hunter looms like a specter of vengeance, barely a sound to betray his position. And then there’s me, Thatcher Bryant, father, friend, soldier—caught somewhere between war and peace, love and duty.

Gotcha, I think, the word never making it past my lips. The figure is trapped now, whether they know it or not. Time to find out who our mystery guest is.

The moment our circle snaps shut, the night erupts into chaos. The prowler startles like a cornered animal and tripsover his own feet as I lunge forward, my fingers locking around his arm.

My brain registers how small the figure is compared to me. Not only in height, but also in stature. And a true professional never would have tripped over his own feet. I’ve got one of the kid’s flailing arms in my hand and I pin his wrists together as Griffin yanks down the hood from his eyes and the baseball hat from his head. Hunter’s just a looming shadow behind him, silent as the grave, but I know that presence is enough to make anyone spill their guts. The boy’s eyes stare at us, wide moons in the dim light.

“Who the hell are you?” Griffin asks.

“Logan Matthews,” I mutter. My voice is all gravel and authority, the bark of a drill sergeant that echoes off the siding of my house.

“Who the hell is Logan Matthews?” Griffin mutters.

I narrow my eyes at the same kid who tried to rob me and Allie several nights ago. “What are you doing here, kid? Did I not make myself clear? You hadonechance.”

“May I suggest that we take him into your house?” Hunter says quietly with a sweeping look around my neighbors’ homes. It’s late, but not too late that everyone would already be fast asleep.

I give the guys a nod and we march the kid inside. It’s like stepping into another world. The soft glow from the living room lamps feels like a spotlight on a stage. Hunter closes the door with a soft click that screams “no escape” louder than any bolt thrown.

“Sit,” I command, pointing to the couch. Logan drops to the couch, perched on the edge like he’s afraid the cushions might swallow him whole.

“Start talking,” I say, but he clams up, eyes skittering from me to Griffin, who leans against the wallwith deceptive casualness, then to Hunter, who’s as still as a statue, save for those eyes that don’t miss a beat.

“Look, kid,” I try again, softer this time but no less firm. “You’re in deep, so it’s in your best interest to be straight with us.”

His lips press into a thin line, a battle raging behind those darting eyes. But I can see it—the crack in his resolve. It’s only a matter of time before he spills.

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