Page 8 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“I promise. I won’t use any names. No specifics that can lock in on who he is. Just pure, unadulterated storytelling about the facts and circumstances surrounding his business.”

Abby’s lips quirk into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her concern hangs in the air, but she knows better than anyone that I’ve been waiting my entire adult life for this opportunity. I’m ready to tango with the trickiest of clauses.

“You still have that personal alarm I gave you?”

I reach down into my purse and pull out my keychain, equipped with the smallest, but loudest little alarm one could ever carry. “Got it right here!”

She sighs and wipes her hand on her scrubs. “I guess people had their reservations about me when I said I wanted to be a trauma nurse.”

“Exactly! And who stood up for you when Mom spent every night saying the rosary, convinced some junkie was going to stab you in the ER?”

Abby rolls her eyes. “Easy, Allie. I was agreeing with you,” she says while plating the gnocchi with a flourish that could rival our nonna’s.

She pulls a small, wrapped present from her own purse and slides it across the table toward me.

“What’s this?”

She shrugs. “Before I knew you were doing this wholematchmakerthing, I saw it and thought of you.”

I open the box and gasp at the tiniest vibrator I’ve ever seen. It’s about the size of a tube of lipstick. “Abby!”

She grins at me and turns to pull a couple of serving spoons out of my top drawer. “What? You said it’s been a while. I figured you might need a little action on the go, too. It’s called a pocket rocket for a reason.”

She takes the vibrator from me and drops it into my purse.

With a roll of my eyes, I take the two plates of gnocchi from her while she turns to grab some bowls for the salad. Then while her back is turned to me, I grab a meatball from my plate and toss it down to Biscuit with a wink.

“But,” Abby says with a pointedness that makes my spine go straight. “If you get into any trouble with this story and need help, I’m here.”

“Noted.” I grin, saluting her with my wineglass before taking another sip.

She takes her seat across from me and we both swallow our first bites of her delicious dinner, the aroma filling the space between us—a reminder that some risks are worth taking, especially when they come with a side of home-cooked support.

“So…” she says. “Tell me about this guy. Is he cute?”

I snort at the adjective. “Thatcher is anything butcute. He’s…mysterious. Six feet of pure solid muscle and imposing presence. I think his jawalonecould slice a freaking jugular. But that’s what’s going to make my piece stand out. He’s an enigma wrapped in a riddle, sprinkled with mystery dust.”

“Sounds like asexyriddle to me,” Abby mutters, stifling her smile.

“Weren’t youjusttelling me to be cautious with him? That he’s 007, not Cupid or whatever?”

Abby shrugs again, spearing a piece of gnocchi. “Even James Bond findsromance in his movies. I don’t see anything wrong with appreciating a hot man you’re working with from a distance. As long as you promise to be careful and not get attached to him,” she adds, sisterly caution lacing her words.

“Promise,” I reply, cutting a meatball in half. “Trust me, Thatcher No-Last-Name is not my type.” And I mean it.

But I can’t deny the thrill of this story’s potential buzzing louder than the warning bells. Because Thatcher, whether he likes it or not, has a story begging to be told. And I’m exactly the right tenacious reporter to tell it.

Because at this point, I don’t really have anything to lose.

Chapter 4

Thatcher

I squint at the glowing screen, my eyes tracing over Allie Larsen’s social media profiles for what must be the hundredth time since sunrise. It’s two twenty-four p.m., and I’ve been knee-deep in internet breadcrumbs for hours. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for at this point…other than a reason not to take on Allie Larsen, the preppy food critic looking for Mr. Right.

The office is quiet, save for the rhythmictap-tapof my fingers on the keyboard, rifling through the digital chapters of Allie’s life.

“Man, you’re digging like there’s gold in those files.” Griffin’s voice cuts through my concentration as he leans against the doorframe, mug in hand. I don’t need to look up to know he’s got that easygoing grin plastered across his face and that he’s dressed impeccably in a suit that probably costs more than most people’s rent.

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