Page 218 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
Change the subject.
Go about my day like a fully functional adult.
But no.
Because my life is a flaming dumpster on roller skates, I hear myself say:
“Do you…date?”
Oh no.
Abort the mission.
ABORT.
“I mean—not that I care,” I rush, hands waving like I can erase the words midair. “It’s not professional to ask. You don’t have to answer.”
Why are words still happening?
Declan’s mouth curves into a slow smile—small, warm, devastating.
“No, I don’t date,” he says. “But…”
I hold my breath.
“Thereisa woman I’m interested in.”
And just like that, my heart crumples like a soggy paper crane.
Of course.
Of course he likes someone.
Probably someone who isn’t babysitting a shichon in plaid pants and an emotional support beret.
He’s being polite.
Kind.
Sending me the subtle “please stop hurling yourself at me” signal.
I scramble for dignity. For oxygen. For a distraction.
I snap Dexter’s leash on.
“Well,” I manage, too brightly, “good luck. She’d be lucky to have you.”
Before he can say anything—before my word vomit evolves into word diarrhea—I turn on my heel and march toward the door, cheeks burning, Dexter strutting beside me like he’s auditioning for America’s Next Top Model.
I barely make it down the steps before my burner phone starts buzzing like an angry wasp in a coffee can.
Not my regular phone.
The burner.
Perfect.
I know I shouldn’t look.
