Page 92 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Keep cool, play along. It’s not over yet.

Griffin, Hunter, Allie, I think.You’re up.

As we’re leaving through the broken door, I hear Biscuit let out a soft whine from under the desk.Hang tight, little buddy. This isn’t my first rodeo, and if I have anything to say about it, it won’t be my last.

Chapter 26

Allie

“No, no, no, no!” I murmur to myself and search the complicated buttons, trying to figure out how to open the damn panic room door. My attention is divided between the tech in front of me and the video feed of Thatcher in his office. He tucks Biscuit into his desk and I’m momentarily relieved that my dog will hopefully be safe from Drakon.

But that doesn’t save Thatcher.

Cooped up in the panic room, my heart’s doing this funny little pirouette, an awkward dance of terror mixed with something else—something warm, fluttery, and painfully sweet.

Love.

It smacks into me like a wrecking ball.

I’m in love with Thatcher Bryant.

The realization crashes over me as the monitors flicker with images too grim for any rom-com: Thatcher being manhandled by the man with the ring I had a brief interaction with at the bathhouse, the very antithesis of Prince Charming.

Thatcher starts to willingly walk toward them, his hands up in surrender. “No,” I whisper. “Fight, dammit.”

But I know he won’t fight them. Because Thatcher’s goal will always be other people’s safety first. He wouldn’t want to risk them finding me hiding in here.

I growl in frustration and shove my hair out of my face, turning back to the electronic keypad in front of me.

“Come on, Allie, you can figure this out,” I chide myself, fingers flying over the buttons that might as well be hieroglyphics. My usual playful banter is replaced by terse, whispered commands, each one met with frustrating silence from the unyielding door.

“Open!” I hiss into the voice modulator, my voice laced with desperation. A robotic voice answers me:Threat detected beyond the walls.

Dammit. I should have guessed that Thatcher would set this up to automatically lock someone inside if there’s another human out there. It would be the only way to protect his son, come to think about it. There’s nothing to do, but wait until there’s no one left in the office, then open the door.

My gaze darts between the blinking buttons and the screen where Thatcher’s tall, muscular frame is grabbed by that Ivan guy. A surge of protectiveness wells up in me, fierce and unexpected. He always seemed so untouchable; I forget sometimes that even heroes have their Achilles’ heel.

In this case,me.

The screen shows them dragging Thatcher out of the broken front door, and my heart hammers against my chest, urging me to do something—anything. I pound the panel in frustration and once again say: Open!”

And lo and behold, the same robotic voice comes onsaying:Threat no longer detected. The door finally swings open with a hiss.

“About time!” I exclaim, my adrenaline spiking as I step out of the high-tech fortress and push the false bookshelf out of the way.

First thing’s first, I rush to the drawer where Thatcher had tucked Biscuit and open it. Biscuit’s tiny tail wags in the cramped space beneath the desk where Thatcher had stashed him, his furry face all wide-eyed and trusting.

He hasn’t a damn clue that we’re all still very much in danger. Scooping up my brave little sidekick, I channel every action movie cliché I can muster. Because now comes the hard part. It’s time to save Thatcher…and nothing in my suburban bookworm, food critic life has prepared me for this.

But love, that sneaky, powerful thing, makes you do crazy stuff. Like believe you can rescue a man who’s practically a one-man army.

Thatcher’s voice echoes in my head about staying calm and using your head, not just your fists. Okay, Thatcher, let’s see if your crash course in butt-kicking pays off.

“Time to be a hero, Biscuit,” I whisper, tucking him under one arm as we scramble out of the office and down the stairs. “Let’s go find our guy.”

The warm, humid air outside is a slap of reality. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Thatcher and I were in bliss, finding solace in each other’s arms. Now here I am, playing damsel turned savior. I whip around at the sound of screeching wheels just in time to see a generic black SUV turn right at the light ahead.

There’s no time for hesitation. I need wheels. And right there, like a beacon of hope, is a bicycle leaning against alamppost, its unsuspecting owner unlocking it, while scrolling absently on her phone.

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