Chapter 12 Meet-CuteMurder? Tbd
AMANDA
“Would you like to try our new moisture renewal serum?”
The customer nods, and I’m already reaching for a sample to pat into her cheeks that have been neglected for far too long when my brain helpfully reminds me that in approximately four hours, I’m supposed to meet a man who may or may not be a serial killer.
Cool. Great timing, brain.
Because Chad wasn’t exactly specific on the details, was he? No “meet me at this time,” no “wear a red rose so I know it’s you,” not even “this is what I look like, so you don’t accidentally approach the wrong guy and ruin your life.”
Nope. Instead, he just threw out a vague “I know where you’ll be” and “you’ll know who I am when you see me,” which is about a solid eight on the scale of how murder-y it sounds.
Izzy has been texting me. I have been strategically ignoring her.
Not because I don’t love her but because I told her I was turning off the Matched feature, and technically, I did try. It is absolutely not my fault that the option doesn’t actually exist. I made an effort. I went into the settings. I typed it into the help menu multiple times.
Not. My. Fault.
And somehow, instead of opting out, I’ve escalated the entire situation to DEFCON 1.
Which means if I see Izzy today, I will have to tell her that I am actively ignoring every rational part of my brain and meeting a stranger who knows way too much about my bedtime preferences.
I’m not ready to admit that to her. Or to myself.
Plus, I don’t want to lie to my best friend. So instead, I am avoiding her entirely, which is, at best, an eighth grader’s solution.
Foolproof plan. No pitfalls whatsoever.
Except, of course, if I get murdered. That would definitely put a damper on things. But on the bright side, at least it’ll make for a compelling epitaph: SHE DIED AS SHE LIVED: DRAMATICALLY AND WITH POOR JUDGMENT.
And then, miraculously, the day actually passes. God, I really am doing this, aren’t I? I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder with the determination of a soldier heading into battle, and walk out of my office before I can change my mind and hide under my desk like a reasonable person.
I step out of Monarch onto the sidewalk, the early-evening air thick with humidity and the usual Manhattan energy that makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger even when you’re not. And then I just… stand there. Because I have absolutely no fucking idea what I’m supposed to do.
Like, what’s the play here? Do I just start walking home and hope Chad materializes out of thin air like some kind of romantic ghost?
Do I spin around dramatically like I’m starring in a rom-com and expect him to appear when I turn back?
Do I hold up a sign that says “Looking for Chad” and hope for the best?
Because, let’s be honest, this entire idea has been vaguely unhinged from the start, so who’s to say the man won’t just descend from the heavens on a cloud of pure masculinity?
I shift on my heels and glance around, feeling stupider than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
This was probably a mistake. Actually, no.
This was definitely a mistake of epic proportions.
Because I don’t see anyone. No mysterious figure waiting in the distance, no devastatingly attractive man in a cape and top hat leaning against a streetlamp like he stepped out of a period romance novel.
Just exhausted New Yorkers, bewildered tourists, and a man with an emotional support chihuahua screaming into his phone about his ex-wife.
So yeah. I got stood up by a guy I met on an AI boyfriend app. That’s a new low, even for me. I exhale through my nose, rolling my shoulders back. All right. That’s fine. Maybe this whole thing was just him messing with me for his own entertainment.
I shake out my arms and lift my chin up. I’ll just go home, take a bath with every expensive product I own, delete the whole app, and never tell Izzy about this humiliating chapter of my life.
I take exactly one step forward.
And that’s when I hear it. The roar of an engine cutting through the city noise. A motorcycle. I barely have time to process before it comes tearing up the street and—holy shit—pulls right onto the sidewalk like laws are merely suggestions.
Pedestrians curse with the creativity that only comes from years of living in New York, stepping out of the way but not without throwing up middle fingers and aggressively expressing their opinions about sidewalk traffic.
The bike comes to a clean, precise stop. Right in front of me.
Okay. So this is how I die. Interesting choice for a finale, but I’m here for it.
I freeze completely, eyes locked on the rider like I’m a deer caught in the headlights of my own poor decision-making.
He’s clad entirely in black—a sleek leather jacket that fits like it was custom-made for his body, dark jeans that hug thick thighs in a way that should be illegal, black boots planted firmly on the ground.
A matte-black helmet obscures his face completely, the visor giving me absolutely nothing to work with except the reflection of my own wild imagination.
But I can tell just by looking at him, the way he sits perfectly still while watching me, that he’s big. Broad. He’s got the sort of presence you feel in your bones before you even see him properly.
Which is a problem, because I have a type. And it’s him.
I give myself a small mental golf clap. He’s riding a white bike and I’m taking that as a good omen, considering how things went the last time I got on a motorcycle. White bikes don’t crash. That’s definitely how that works.
The city keeps moving around us like we’re in some kind of movie, but for a second, everything else fades into background noise.
I don’t breathe. He doesn’t move.
Then, slowly, like he has all the time in the world, like every person on this sidewalk isn’t still actively cursing his existence, he pulls out his phone.
I catch a glimpse of his hands—strong, covered by fingerless gloves that immediately trigger memories of our bar debate from last night. And because my attention span has been whittled down to the length of a TikTok, my brain immediately goes: Oh shit, red or green flag?
I file it away for later analysis, because I still don’t know if I’m about to become a murder victim or have the best night of my life. My phone pings with the sound that’s become way too familiar. I swallow hard and glance down.
CHAD
Glad you could make it, baby doll.
I slowly lift my eyes back to the biker, and he tilts his helmeted head like he’s waiting for me to react, like this is all some kind of test.
Oh. Oh, shit.
I stare at my phone. Then at him. Then back at my phone, because apparently I need visual confirmation that this is actually happening.
“You’re not seriously going to keep texting me when you’re standing right in front of me, right?” I call out.
A beat. Then another ping.
What’s wrong, baby doll? Want to hear my voice that bad?
I scowl, grip tightening around my phone hard enough to crack the screen. “Uh, yeah? Not an unreasonable request considering I’m supposed to be getting on a motorcycle with you?”
He doesn’t respond this time. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t move. Just watches me through the visor of his helmet, posture so annoyingly relaxed, like he already knows exactly how this will play out and I’m just along for the ride.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” I huff, my foot quite possibly stomping on the sidewalk.
Don’t have a tantrum in public, baby doll. Are you coming or not?
I inhale sharply, my glare locked on him, because I don’t appreciate being called out when my behavior is clearly a reasonable response to an insane situation.
“I want to see who you are first,” I say, taking a step closer and reaching for his helmet. “I’m not just going to ride off into the sunset with you without knowing what’s underneath this.”
His hands snap forward, fingers wrapping firmly around my wrists with reflexes that suggest this is definitely not his first time handling a situation.
It’s instant. My breath catches in my throat.
My pulse flickers and jumps. My skin heats where he’s touching me like I’ve been branded.
I can feel the strength in his grip, the way his fingers press into my skin just enough to make a point without actually hurting me.
And I shiver despite the warm air, because I don’t like how readily my body reacts to him. Or maybe I do, which is even more terrifying. He feels solid. Unshakable. Real in a way that makes my head spin. Like he was built specifically to wrap around me, built to keep me exactly where he wants me.
I swallow hard, watching the way his fingers curve around my wrists, the slow drag of his thumbs over my pulse points before he finally releases me, the loss of contact somehow more overwhelming than the initial touch.
Without a word, he reaches behind him to the back of his bike and grabs a second helmet, holding it out to me.
A clear invitation. A test. A point of no return.
I reach for it, thumb brushing over the smooth surface, knowing that the moment I put this on, everything changes. And that’s when I hear it.
“AMANDA?!”
I turn just in time to see Izzy tearing through the sidewalk crowd like a woman on a mission, eyes wide with horror.
Oh. Shit.
“AMANDA, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!”
Pure instinct kicks in.
I jam the helmet onto my head, swing one leg over the bike with more grace than I knew I possessed, and wrap my arms around his waist like my life depends on it.
I don’t have time to process how fucking good it feels.
The heat of him through his jacket, the solid press of muscle beneath my hands.
I have a stupid weakness for hot guys on motorcycles, which is definitely not something I want to analyze too deeply right now.
Especially when my brain keeps trying to dredge up memories I’ve spent years burying.
Memories of another bike, another night.
My hands gripping someone else’s jacket, trusting him completely, right before everything went to hell.
I push the thought away. This is different. This is fine. I’m fine.
Izzy is gaining on us, her voice cutting through the street noise. “AMANDA, GET OFF THE— BALLET FLATS! BALLET FLATS!”
I blow her a kiss through my helmet visor, because I am nothing if not committed to my dramatic exits.
And then we’re gone.
The bike takes off, stealing the breath from my lungs and scattering it across Manhattan. I tighten my grip on him, hands fisting his leather jacket as the city blurs past us in streaks of light and color.
And suddenly, it’s just us. The sound of the engine rumbling beneath us, the wind rushing past like freedom itself, and the warmth of his body beneath my grip.
And I have absolutely no idea what I just got myself into.
But for the first time in eight years, I don’t care.