Page 4 of When Death Whispers

Aaand there it is. Any nice thoughts evaporate in a cloud of tiny hummingbirds.

False alarm. He’s charmingandannoying.

I give him a syrupy sweet smile. “You know, not a bad idea. The last guy I brought home was such a disappointment. A cake guy might be better. At least I know he’d be sweet… and he’d taste good.”

He gapes at me like I just slapped him with a spatula.

Perfect.

For a second, something flickers in his expression that looks suspiciously like he’s flustered.

But Betty walks in, calling out, “Parker, it’s time for your break!”

I don’t hesitate. “Taking my twenty,” I chirp, already peeling off my apron as I leave Hudson sputtering behind me.

The locker room is cramped, the kind of space that feels like it was designed as an afterthought. Six dented lockers line one wall, a scuffed wooden bench sits in front, and a tiny table with four mismatched chairs are shoved into the far corner. A microwave balances precariously on top of a mini fridge humming with age. It’s the only sound in here besides the faint buzz of the flickering fluorescent light above.

There’s a narrow window on the wall that probably lets in beautiful natural light in the daytime. But tonight, the storm outside turns it into something ominous—lightning flashing in fractured streaks, shadows jumping like startled ghosts. I try not to watch them move. I know better than to stare too long into things that stare back.

I head toward the bathroom, already zoning out, when his voice startles me again.

“You know… there are actually fun things to do around here besides decorating cakes.”

His voice is playful, but there’s something quieter beneath it. Something real. Curious.

I turn, ready with a sarcastic reply—but stop short when I bump into his chest.

He’s close. Closer than I expected. Close enough that I can smell the faint trace of vanilla and sugar clinging to his shirt. The bathroom door presses against my back, and there’s nowhere to go.

His arm lifts to rest against the door above my head, careful and non-threatening, like he’s giving me the space to step away if I want to. But I don’t. Not yet. Maybe I don’t want to.

My heart flutters like the hummingbird he piped into the frosting earlier.

His voice drops lower, softer. “We could go out after our shift. Get breakfast. I’ll show you around. Introduce you to people who don’t make a habit of working the graveyard shift.”

He glances at my lips and my breath catches. For one terrifying second, I let myself imagine what it would be like if things were different. If I were different.

His breath ghosts across my skin, and I swear it feels like a physical touch. My body responds before my brain can catch up—a blush crawling from my chest to my cheeks, heat blooming in places I haven’t felt warmth in a long time.

Then his hand settles on my hip, confident and steady.

Not forceful. Just...anchoring. Like he’s pulling me closer, slow and deliberate, waiting to see if I’ll stop him.

But I don’t. I can’t. I really really don’t want to.

Dammit.

He leans back slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. His smile is gentler now, all mischief tucked away. There’s no teasing in it. Only quiet, genuine interest.

“You don’t have to be alone all the time,” he says, voice almost hesitant.

His hand doesn’t move. Doesn’t tighten. Juststays. And somehow, that’s worse—because it feels like it belongs there.

His other hand lifts, slow and careful, to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are warm, his touch light—but it lands like thunder. He brushes his thumb beneath my chin, tilting my face up to his. My lips part as he leans in.

“Go out with me, Snow Pea?—”

And everything shatters.

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