Page 40 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

She laughs and adds another dollar.

I haven’t shown Gage my magic tricks yet. The thought appears from nowhere and nearly wrecks my next pour. Huh.

All these weeks, I’ve seen Gage digging a grave. Gage flirting across breakfast. Gage staring at my stockings like they personally offended his self-control. I’ve seen him online too, obviously. Purely for research. Repeated, extensive, occasionally shirtless research.

But he hasn’t seen this Jubilee. The one who actually likes being noticed, sometimes. The mask is still here. It’s just a different one.

I force myself back into the rhythm. Pour. Shake. Smile. Collect. Move.

I’m reaching for the register when a voice slides through the music behind me. “Vodka tonic, Princess. On the rocks.”

I stop mid-keystroke. Heat races through my bloodstream like someone struck a match beneath my skin. Motherfucker. I turn.

Gage Cannon is sitting at my bar. For half a second, I forget every drink ever invented.

He’s dressed for the club, dark clothes absolutely revealing this man is built like a very expensive bad decision. Beard neatly trimmed, perfect man-bun, those stupidly hooded eyes fixed entirely on me. And he’s smiling. His smile for me. Mine breaks loose, too.

I attempt to recover some dignity. “You want an olive with that?”

He folds his hands across the bar. “Surprise me.”

His voice should require licensing. Professional. I am a professional. I pour his vodka, while ringing up two beers, yell an order to another bartender, grab somebody’s card from the tray, and garnish Gage’s drink with a tiny plastic sword skewering three blueberries.

I set it down. He studies the blueberries, then me. “I’m surprised.”

“That’ll be fourteen dollars.” I bend a little, letting my low-cut shirt do some very “accidental” work for my tip jar.

“Rude.”

“You can afford it.” I pluck the sword from his glass, close my lips around one blueberry, slide it off, and plop the sword back into his drink. He hands me a fifty, and tells me to keep the change. I remember our first date at a three-point-five restaurant, and how he gave the server a generous tip.

I walk away before I stare at his mouth too long.

Ten minutes later, Rick Number Four decides he’s going to test my patience. Not his actual name. But his type is regular. Ninety percent of the time, they’re harmless.

This one has been flirting badly for nearly an hour and drinking worse. He’s smacked my ass once. If I called the bouncers every time a drunk asshole got handsy, I’d be out of a job. So, I have my own system. More ice. More water. And occasionally, a loose twenty-dollar bill slips into my tip jar. Magic hands aren’t only for entertainment.

Now, he waves a folded bill above my head. “Aww, come on, sweetheart. Little kiss right here.” He taps his cheek. “Double if it’s here.” His finger moves to his grinning mouth. His brows bounce. “Triple if it’s somewhere else.”

In my peripheral vision, Gage’s body changes immediately—glass down, shoulders set, fists forming. He’s ready to move. I give him one slight shake of my head.

He stops.

Gage nods once, but I know he’s assessing every inch of this asshole.

My stomach flutters, a flush heating my chest. He isn’t using my workplace to prove how large and masculine he is. Gage knows strength doesn’t automatically give him authority.

Fuck. Why is that hotter than punching somebody?

Okay. Time to shine.

I lean across the bar, unbothered by my thong peeking above my low-rise jeans. Rick Number Four practically beams. I glance sideways at Gage and wink.

“I do have something for you,” I tell the drunk sweetly.

“Oooh.” He moves closer. “Lay it on me, sweet cheeks.”

I grab the soda gun, aim, and blast him across the neck and chin. He shrieks. Two bouncers move in before I even holster it. They know the shower means somebody has officially exceeded their welcome.