Page 93 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

I reach into my purse and pull out my gun-shaped lighter. “Freeze! Police!” I blurt out, my fingers curled around the handle. The bewildered woman before me does a double take from me to her bike and back again.

“What?”

“Police matters! I need to confiscate your vehicle!”

“You mean…my bike? You want to take my bike?”

“Yes. Exactly!”

“Are you...serious?” she stammers, eyeing my fake gun in one outstretched hand and my fluffy dog in the other.

“Very!” I snap, trying to sound more cop-like and less like the panicked girl I am. “I need your bike now! It’s an emergency. I’ll bring it back right here to this lamppost, I promise.”

She hesitates, clearly torn between common sense and the wild conviction in my eyes. “Do you have like…a badge or something?” she asks, skepticism laced with a touch of fear.

“Um, of course I have a badge. I’m a cop.” But I don’t move to get it. “Dammit, lady, we’re losing precious time here! Your bike will be here tomorrow morning. I swear.”

I move to take a step toward her, but she gasps and runs away from me with a shriek.

I don’t have time to reflect on that too much. I’ll deal with the consequences of stealing her bike later.

I waste no time strapping Biscuit into the front basket, securing him with my scarf. “Hold on tight, buddy,” I say, and pedal like mad in the direction of Thatcher’s unceremonious exit.

Who needs a knight in shining armor when you’ve got a journalist on a stolen bike? Watch out, Drakon. You’ve gotAllie Larsen on your tail now, and she’s got love—and a terrier—in her corner.

I take the right turn where I first saw the SUV go, but that’s where my lead stops. I slow down a little, scanning the road for any evidence that may help lead me to where they’re going. Then I spot it—a glint of red amidst the gravel. The broken taillight, scattered like breadcrumbs for me to follow.

Just like he taught me to do if I’m ever put in a trunk.

“Thatcher, you clever man,” I mutter under my breath, a hint of a smile fighting through the worry. He had once showed me how to leave a trail, a way to say “I’m here” without words. And now, those lessons are more than playful sparring—they are lifelines.

As I weave through the urban maze, Thatcher’s belongings seem to call out to me. A shoe abandoned in the middle of the street, a single sock, his belt—each one a silent ally in my quest.

But then, nothing. I’ve been bicycling for about fifteen minutes and there’s no more signs, no more clues; the city swallows up any trace of him. My heart plummets as I pull the bike over to the sidewalk. Biscuit whines, sensing my despair as I pull out my phone and the business card Thatcher gave me. With trembling hands, I dial Griffin’s number.

“This is Griffin,” he answers and I realize that he doesn’t know—wouldn’t know—my number.

“Griffin! It’s Allie. I don’t…I don’t know what to do.” I can barely get the words out, I’m so choked with tears.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is suddenly somber. Gone is the fun-loving, humorous guy that joined us for dinner a few weeks ago.

As quickly as I can, I fill Griffin in on everything. The bathhouseI went to, the meeting in Soleil’s office. The panic room, and Drakon and Ivan, the Enforcer taking Thatcher…as well as the trail he left me.

“Dammit, Allie! What were you thinking trying to follow them?” Griffin’s anger seeps through the line, but there’s an undercurrent of fear for both me and his friend.

“I was thinking I had to act fast,” I plead, sniffling and wiping away stubborn tears that refuse to stop.

“Okay, okay. Stay right there. Hunter and I are coming now,” Griffin demands, shifting into mission mode. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

Before I can answer, another notification pops up on my phone, jolting me. Biscuit’s AirTag location has changed. But that’s impossible—he’s still curled up in the basket of the bicycle, his brown eyes fixed on me. Confused, I lean closer to inspect his collar and notice the AirTag is missing.

Realization dawns on me. That sneaky, brilliant man! Thatcher must have slipped it off during the chaos.

“Thatcher took Biscuit’s AirTag,” I blurt out, excitement breaking through the hopelessness. “I’ve got a location, Griffin! I can find him!”

“Oh thank God,” Griffin exhales. “Listen to me, Allie. Do not move. Hunter and I are skilled at this. We hunted men for a living?—”

“I’ll text you the pin!”

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