Page 20 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

“Three point seven.”

“Coffee?”

I take another sip. Dark roast. Smooth. Slightly nutty. No burnt bitterness despite sitting in a commercial pot. “Four.”

She settles back, smugly vindicated. “And ambiance?”

I glance around. Exposed brick somebody paid extra money to make it seem old. Edison bulbs. Three framed botanical prints. A shelf containing six decorative books that have never been opened. Two and a half. Maybe three if I’m feeling charitable.

Then I consider Jubilee. Piercings catching the window light. Long ribbons spilling over her shoulder because she keeps fiddling with her bow. Five.

“Four,” I say.

Her brows lift. “Really?”

“Mm-hm.” I circle a finger. “Two-and-a-half-star restaurant plus five-star company averages out to⁠—”

“That is not how weighted scoring works.” But she blushes.

“This is mathematically indefensible.”

Another real smile, though she pretends to be very interested in her coffee. And because I have seemed to abandon all principles, I angle the camera under the table and take one more picture. Her tights. Lower legs. Strictly for purchasing research.

Across the restaurant, the espresso machine shrieks again.

Jubilee curls her fingers around the mug before taking a sip. “Is being an influencer actually all you do?”

I lean back against the cracked leather booth. “It pays the bills.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No, but it was a very efficient answer.” I wink.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a grin.

The front door opens, sending a gust of warm air and city exhaust across the restaurant.

“I have a lot of subscribers,” I add, turning back to her. “Brand partnerships. Ad revenue. Classes occasionally. Recipe development. The baking content does well.”

Cheeks practically glowing, she folds her hands on the table. “Of course the internet needed a tattooed man making laminated dough while six cats supervise.” Teasing. Not sarcastic.

“Obviously. I’m a humble public servant.” I touch my forehead in salute.

She laughs. I like making her do that far too much. Her laughter fades into the restaurant around us—the low thrum of conversation, silverware against plates, a toddler crying.

“What about you?” I ask, reaching for my coffee again, letting the heat settle against my palm. “You said you work nights.”

“I bartend.”

“Where?”

“Saint Violet.”

I know the place. Not personally. Reputation. Late-night club. Loud and dark. Open until the hour when normal people are asleep.

Outside the window, a horn blares because Chicago drivers consider patience a character defect.

“What time do you usually get off?” I ask.