Page 216 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The second I push through the precinct doors, the scent of burnt coffee and floor polish hits me like a weirdly comforting slap.

Do I have a doggy stroller? I plead the fifth.

I’m too busy wrestling the door to our little war room, grumbling a very mature, “Monkey muffins!”

When I finally win the battle and step inside, my eyes land on Declan.

Already here.

He’s bent over a drawer of files, sleeves shoved up like he’s personally at war with the paperwork.

Knuckles raw and cut, probably from taking down the city’s scum in yesterdays raid. The sight of it pulls at my heart.

He’s frozen, watching me cast voodoo hexes at the door.

For a second, I consider retreating.

Pretending I walked into the wrong building blaming it on cold foam and poor life choices.

There’s a beat of silence—like he’s not sure what to say.

He clears his throat. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

I set Dexter’s carrier down and adjust my crop top like that’s going to fix the nerves fluttering through me.

“I didn’t know you worked weekends,” I counter, forcing a smile.

There’s a tiny pause, then, very dryly, “...And he’s pink.”

Dexter, right on cue, trots out of the carrier like he owns the damn building.

Plaid pants swishing. Sunglasses still perched.

Beret glittering like a tiny, judgmental tiara.

If I die of secondhand embarrassment today, at least my dog looked fabulous.

“This is Dexter,” I announce, handing Declan a treat from my tote. “He doesn’t like men much. You might want to come bearing gifts.”

Declan gives me a look—half amused, half skeptical—but crouches and offers the treat.

“Eh, I’m good with dogs.”

Dexter sniffs once, then takes it. No growl.

I blink.

“Wow. He usually growls at... everyone.”

I catch myself—the stalker still too close to the surface—and smile tightly.

Dexter never likes men.

Except, apparently, the one I’m trying not to crush on.

The one I definitely shouldn’t want.

Because we work together.

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