Page 99 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

This is going to be so much better than court.

I’ve been trying to look professional for the last fifteen minutes. Really.

I’m standing with the team, focused, serious, calm. A prosecutor prepared to assist with a high-level warrant.

A woman not at all distracted by the fact that Declan Blackwood looks like he walked out of an action movie and is headed directly toward me.

Man. He looks great in tactical gear.

I am fine.

I repeat: I am fine.

And then he walks over holding a vest. Crosses the parking lot with some veryTop Gun–coded sunglasses on.

He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, and something in my stomach goes on a rollercoaster ride.

“Put this on,” he says, offering it like it’s no big deal that he’s wearing a black compression shirt and I can see every little ripple and muscle. Every. Single. One.

I take it, a little awkwardly, and do my best to strap myself in. Of course, the shoulder tab catches weird, and one side is tighterthan the other, and I’m ninety-seven percent sure I’ve somehow made it less safe than it was before.

“Here,” Declan mutters, stepping in closer.

Way closer.

Lifting the glasses on top of his head to see better, he reaches for the vest, one hand brushing my shoulder as the other tightens the front strap, and suddenly we are chest to chest, and my heart has decided it’s in a sprinting competition with itself.

His hands are rough. Confident. He moves with the kind of quiet certainty that makes you forget to inhale. It’s not flirtatious—it’s practiced. Professional.

Which somehow makes it worse. Sexier.

I stare straight ahead at the edge of a van door like it holds the secrets to inner peace. Maybe if I focus hard enough, I’ll forget that he smells like cedar and crime-solving. That his hand just grazed my rib cage. That I can feel his breath near my cheek because he’sthatclose.

“Should be tighter around your sides,” he says, voice low, all gravel and no give. He tugs a strap, then another. “There. Try breathing.”

Yeah, I’ve been trying to do that for the last ten minutes.

“I’m good,” I manage, voice about two octaves higher than I meant.

He pauses. Stays close.

And—I don’t mean to—but I glance up.

Just for a second.

The sunlight cuts through the trees above us, catches his face in profile, and hits his eyes just right.

They’re not just green—butinhumanlygreen. Like some kind of over-edited detective-themed cologne commercial. And before I can stop myself, before I even realize it’s left my mouth, I whisper?—

“So green…”

His eyes flick to mine.

Sharp. Focused.

And for a single heartbeat, everything goes still.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t move.

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