Page 26 of My Vigilante Valentine

Fine. All of that was true, but it was also Jax.

Three days.

It had been three days since the break-in at Wilde Brew, which meant three days since my regular customer had revealed himself as a vigilante hottie—in spectacular fashion, I might add.

And ever since that night, Jax had the audacity to act like nothing had happened. He’d just lounged in his usual spot, casually brooding into his laptop.

Jax Thorne: Vigilante by night, and by day? He was just a guy who pretended not to know I existed beyond being a free Wi-Fi provider with excellent coffee.

I tossed the apple into the basket hanging from my arm with way more force than necessary.

I couldn’t stop replaying that night in my head. Not the part where he’d saved me—though, okay, that too—but the part after, when the cops had shown up, and I was forced to recount the evening’s events while leaving out some very important, very secret details.

It was a good thing I’d only been tasked with telling them a half-truth, however, because I was spectacularly bad at lying. Like, award-winningly bad.

But The Blade and Jax were the same person... and the fact that I knew that?

Thatwas what had me nervous as they stared at me with their little notebooks open and their pens at the ready.

Cue the overthinking:

What if I slip up and accidentally say his name?

What if I admit that The Blade was there in time to stop it because he’d been sitting at the same table for hours as one of my regulars?

I didn’t know how good their interrogation tactics were—or if they’d even interrogate the victim—but if they’d hooked me up to a polygraph that night? I totally would’ve failed.

In the end, I’d obviously settled for nervous rambling.

No, The Blade didn’t use any weapons on him. Why? I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. Not like you know him. I don’t either, so it’s not like I can help with that. Also, would you like a coupon for a free latte? It’s our way of saying thanks for protecting and serving. It’s probably better than the stuff you get at the station, amiright? Sorry, yours is probably fine.

They’d looked at me like I was either hiding something or super ditzy.

Likely both.

And one of them—a detective with the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen—had warned me, “If you saw his face and you’re helping him stay under our radar, you’re operating outside the law, same as he is.”

It should’ve scared me. Should’ve made me rethink everything.

Instead, it had sent a little thrill zipping down my spine, like I was suddenly part of some underground world-saving mission.

Me.

Luna Wilde. Coffee shop owner. Accidental plant killer. Vigilante-adjacent.

I wandered past the rows of colorful bottles of kombucha, letting out a dramatic sigh that startled a woman inspecting gluten-free crackers.

She gave me a look.

I gave her a look back.

She blinked first.

Victory.

Anyway, I wasn’t obsessed with this whole Jax-is-The-Blade revelation. That would be ridiculous. His double life was simply a puzzle, and I liked puzzles.

But that wasn’t what had me wandering these aisles like my shopping list was written in Ancient Greek. What got me was the way he’d been acting as if nothing had changed and that I didn’t know his big, dangerous secret. As if I didn’t know that he wandered the streets of Slate Habor with a hidden stash of throwing knives and two giant swords strapped to his back.

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