Page 85 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

If only melting were an option. I stay silent, statue-still until I hear footsteps and the two men enter, leaving the doorway open.

I seize the moment when their heads turn toward Paige as she squeals, “What are you doing in here?!”

I yank my robe on and run out the door of the steam room like a ghost in a cloud, my feet light and swift on the damp tiles.

Dashing to the locker, I snatch up my belongings—swimsuit clinging to my skin—and stuff them into my bag with a haste that would make a pickpocket envious.

The fire exit looms ahead, a red beacon of escape. I burst through it, the alarm blaring its betrayal. Ignoring the cacophony, I sprint across the parking lot, my heart pounding a rhythm with my flip-flops as they slap the concrete. Each breath feels like freedom, laced with the metallic tang of fear.

Outside, the warm summer air slaps my face, sobering me from the adrenaline high. “Biscuit,” I gasp, the terror gripping me anew. Even though I signed the forms with an alias, I paid with my credit card. What else could they find out about me? My address? Mysister’s location?

I need to get to Biscuit. Right now.

With my car keys in hand, I dive into my car, the engine roaring to life with a reassuring purr. Tires squeal as I take off, my only thought: Get to Biscuit.

“Come on, Thatcher, pick up,” I murmur as I dial his number, one hand steering while the other clutches my phone. The rings echo in the void, unanswered. “Dammit, Thatcher Bryant, where are you when I need your stoic, sarcastic ass?”

No time for voicemails. Plan B.

I call my sister next and leave her a voicemail telling her to watch out for Russian men. I’m sure it sounds like a crazy person’s rant.

I swerve onto the main road, and skid to a stop in front of my apartment, barely parking.

I throw my car into park, and run into my apartment, quickly changing my clothes before throwing everything that’s important to me into a go-bag. Biscuit looks up from his nap on the couch, seeming utterly confused.

“Sorry, Biscuit. We’ve got to take a detour today,” I mutter as I scoop up his little wriggling body and lock the door behind us. His tongue lolls out in a canine grin, oblivious to the danger nipping at our heels.

Jumping back into the car, I grip the wheel hard. Where can we go? Abby doesn’t finish her shift at the hospital for another several hours. And Thatcher isn’t answering his phone. I suddenly find myself wishing I had Griffin and Hunter’s phone numbers, too.

The newspaper office, I think with a sudden moment of clarity. There’s plenty of security there. I can wait this out in Soleil’s office. She will know what to do.

Minutes later, the neon sign of theCharleston Sunbuzzes a welcome as I skid through the entrance, Biscuittucked under my arm like a fluffy football. My heart is doing its best impression of a jackhammer, each beat a reminder that this story that was supposed to be my big break—may just be my last. Yes, it was an intriguing piece when I first noticed Thatcher helping that woman on the date…but it wasn’t supposed to bethis. It wasn’t supposed to be my life on the line!

“Okay, Allie, deep breath,” I whisper to myself. I flash my badge at the security guards and scan it in to open the turnstiles.

“Biscuit!” Our security guard waves at my dog…an office favorite, but I don’t stop for pleasantries. Instead, I charge past him with a fast wave. There’s no time for elevator chitchat or polite nods. I take the stairs two at a time, Biscuit bouncing against my side.

Reaching the fifth floor, I don’t bother with stealth. Who cares about decorum when you’ve got Russian mobsters at your heels? I ignore Soleil’s assistant’s objections and fling open the door to my editor’s office.

“Soleil! Soleil, I need your help—” My words crash into silence.

There, on Soleil’s sleek leather couch, are two men. One is a high-ranking military officer, if the number of medals and badges adorning his uniform are any indication. And the other man lounges like he owns the place. I recognize him immediately from the selfies Paige showed me in the steam room. None other than Drake “Drakon” Mikhailo is sitting on Soleil’s couch.

“Ms. Larsen,” Drakon drawls in a thick Russian accent. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Chapter 24

Allie

Drakon—or rather, Drake’s—suit is sharp enough to slice through steel, and his gaze... God, his eyes are like ice picks chipping away at my resolve. He has the kind of stare that could turn a person to stone.

He sits, relaxed, leaning back on the leather sofa, one leg crossed over his knee. In contrast, the man who is in full US Military regalia sits upright, spine ramrod straight.

“May I call you Allie?” Drakon asks, the syllables rolling off his tongue with an accent that’s equal parts danger and dark chocolate. I open my mouth to answer him, but he doesn’t allow me. He simply steamrolls over my answer, no matter what it is. “Allie, how lovely that we finally meet.”

“Do I know you?” I manage to squeak, my voice sounding more mouse than maven. I tighten my grip on Biscuit, who decides now is the perfect moment to give a brave little growl.

Good boy, bad timing.

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