Page 168 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

"I don’t know!" she hisses, pointing. "Go be sexy!"

I groan, low and miserable, but round the corner anyway—just in time to catch the receptionist at the bathroom door, already annoyed.

When she sees me, she brightens like a kid about to get the pony she’s been screaming for since Christmas.

I lean one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. Or what passes for casual when you're one bad moment away from chewing your own arm off.

Her eyes drop to my biceps.

Predictable.

“Thought I’d come see if you needed any help.” I lower my voice—rough, suggestive—like we’re sharing some filthy secret.

“Mmm.” She situates her breasts like they’re her only asset. Flirting, nipples first. Personality second.

“A gentleman,” she purrs, stepping closer. “And so strong.”

Her hand rubs up my arm, thumb dragging over the muscle.

Someone. Fucking. Shoot me.

“You have quite the… physique.”

One more step, and those flirty nipples are nearly grazing my chest.

“Let me take you to dinner,” I say, dragging my eyes down her body and back up again—slow, deliberate. “And afterward...” I pause, letting the filth hang, “you can get betteracquaintedwith my physique.”

She damn near creams her panties.

“Let me just,” She runs a fingernail down my arm, cold as death. “get you my number.”

She finds a pen, scribbles on a sticky note, and slides her palm up my chest in a move so rehearsed it’s almost sad.

I grit my teeth and hold the line.

Another minute. Just another goddamn minute.

She tucks the note into my pocket. “I’m Miranda.”

Salvation arrives in the form of the front door opening with a cheerful chime.

She steps away with a fresh eyeroll, cheeks pink.

I back off like she’s radioactive.

“I’ve got to get up there.”

“By all means.” I gesture for her to walk ahead.

She does more of the hip-swaying thing down the hall.

When she slides behind her desk, she gives Poppy a look that saysI’ll be fucking your man before dessert is served.

What a bitch.

I glance toward the door.

Poppy’s standing there, arms crossed, one hip cocked like she’s two seconds from launching a shoe at my head.

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