Page 98 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Seconds stretch into eternities as I stand there, frozen, afraid that even the slightest movement will give me away. Biscuit nuzzles into my neck, a silent plea for comfort I can’t give. Not now. Not when everything hangs in the balance.

How did it come to this? How did a simple story I wanted to write about a mysterious matchmaker spiral into a life-or-death rescue mission?

But even as the questions swirl through my head, I know the answer. It’s Thatcher. It’s always been Thatcher.From the moment he pulled a gun on me in that alley, he’s been the center of gravity that my world revolves around. And now, with him in danger, with the very real possibility of losing him forever… I would risk everything for him.

And I know he would do the same for me.

The footsteps fade, Drakon’s voice receding into the distance along with Ivan from the bathhouse and a third man I don’t recognize. Ivan wears a badge on his uniform that readsEnforcer. He doesn’t go with his boss. Instead, he turns and goes back into the warehouse. I exhale a long, slow breath, my knees nearly buckling with relief. But I can’t rest. Not yet.

I text Griffin.

Allie:

ETA?

Griffin:

We’re almost there. Do not go in!

I peek into the window once more right as the Enforcer pulls a gun from the waistband of his pants and cocks it.

No!

Thatcher needs me. Now. There’s no time to wait for Griffin and Hunter to arrive. I have to act now.

I need to get all of Drakon’s men out of that room. I need a diversion.

I dig inside my purse searching for something, anything that might help. Gum, no. Chapstick, no. Travel manicure set, no. My fingers brush a small bit of plastic and I gasp. My personal alarm. It’s blaringly loud when it goes off.Yes.

I keep digging and I feel the pocket rocket vibrator my sister gifted to me.

These could work! No…theyhaveto work.

I scan the perimeter of the warehouse and spy a pile of construction junk. Scrap wood, broken old bricks, and some empty paint cans.

Perfect.

With a fortifying inhale, I peel myself off the wall and start moving back to the bicycle and grab two empty paint cans.

As quietly as I can with Biscuit still in my arms, I set them up on the far side of the property, as far away from the warehouse as I can get.

I first turn on the vibrator and from within the bucket, the sound is amplified. Not quite machine gun levels, but enough that when they’re out here searching, their attention will be split. I leave that bucket on one side of the trees and run as far as I can in the other direction.

“Okay, Biscuit. We’re not going to have a lot of time once I turn this on,” I whisper. And there’s no way in hell I’m leaving my dog out here like a sitting duck with these monsters.

I hold him tighter, trying to cover poor Biscuit’s sensitive ears and reach into the paint can, flicking the personal alarm on. The sound is piercing, loud, once again amplified by the paint can and I run as fast as I can back to the window, peering carefully inside.

Biscuit whimpers softly, and I hush him, cupping his furry head against my chest. “It’s okay,” I whisper, more for my benefit than his. “We’re gonna be okay.”

As predicted, the Enforcer and Admiral Brady take off running toward the commotion, guns drawn. And I use the opportunity to slip through the side door, wincing as it creaks on rusted hinges. The interior of the warehouse is a labyrinth of shadows and debris, the air thick with the scent of dust and decay. Shafts of sickly light filterthrough high, grimy windows, barely illuminating the path ahead. I barrel through, running down the hallway and into the room I spied Thatcher in through the window.

I pick my way across the cluttered floor, my eyes straining against the gloom. Thatcher’s voice echoes in my head, snippets of survival training he’s drilled into me over the past couple weeks. Stay low.

Watch your step.

Breathe.

And then I see him, still tied with his hands behind the chair. He lifts his head, his green eyes locking onto mine, and the world starts spinning again.

---