Page 110 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Also—let’s be honest—I was never staying behind.

She’s not coming. End of story.

“No.” I say it flat. Final. Like concrete. “And it’s not up for argument.” I open the door and head for the exit.

Ahead of her, I adjust my raging fucking cock—yeah, the one she was definitely staring at. I could see the fantasy playing out in her head.

The slow lick of her tongue across her lip nearly made me come in my pants.

Behind me: chaos. Paper and files hit the floor like an avalanche, followed by a muttered, exasperated:

“Snickerdoodles!”

Her swear words baffle me. It’s like living next to a Hallmark card that occasionally turns into the Tasmanian fucking Devil.

I don’t turn around.

“Oh, Graham! I’m so sorry?—”

Thatmakes me look back.

In her rush to chase me—probably ready to throw herself into my car if I didn’t cave—Poppy has collided with another attorney.

Her files are scattered like confetti. He’s crouched beside her, all polished smiles and hair gel.

“Pops, you can bump into me anytime,” he says with a grin that makes my teeth grind.

Did he just call herPops?

She’s blushing. Laughing. Tucking her hair behind one ear while trying to collect papers now wildly out of order.

She's focused on realigning her files, and this guy—this fucking guy—smells like he bathed in Axe body spray. His lack of personal-space awareness is grating.

“When are you finally going to let me take you to The Bar?” he adds, too familiar. “Pick that gorgeous brain of yours. Have a few drinks.”

Oh, fuck this guy.

He’s holding her files. My files. The ones no one else should see.

I shoulder him aside. Not gently.

“She’s got it.” My voice could crack granite.

I snatch the folders and grab Poppy’s arm, steering her toward the elevators before I say something that gets me reported to HR.

“Let’s go.”

“Bye, Graham! Sorry—we were just on our way out to a call,” she announces over her shoulder, barely looking up as she wrestles more paper into her arms like a deranged librarian.

I take out every ounce of my irritation on the elevator button.

Once the doors close and it’s just us in the steel box, I turn toward her.

“You can’t drop these notes again,” I say. “No one outside our room sees this case. Got it?”

Without a word, she dumps the entire stack of folders into my arms. “Here.”

I nearly drop half. “Jesus.”

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