Page 67 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek while he studies me, and I fight a grin. He inhales sharply, probably reminding himself that murder is an unreasonable response to crumbs.

I wiggle my feet on the table. “Actually, this might be good for you. Exposure therapy.”

“To what?”

“Imperfection.”

He deadpans. “I’m exposed to you daily.”

My mouth falls open. “Did you just call me an imperfection?”

The bastard’s grin flashes. “I prefer ongoing treatment.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“See? Growth.”

I snatch a throw pillow and launch it across the coffee table. Gage catches it one-handed against his chest without blinking. His smugness is the very epitome of irritating.

“Violence now?”

“You insulted me.” I stick up my chin.

“Your feet have traumatized my coffee table.”

I glance pointedly at my bare feet. “They’re clean.”

“They were outside twenty minutes ago. I have cameras.” My retort dies. His smugness grows. “Common areas, Princess.” He circles a finger in the air.

I narrow my eyes. “Creeper.”

“Says the woman who stood in my gym doorway for four minutes and thirty-seven seconds pretending she wasn’t watching my ass.” He chucks the pillow back beside my knee.

Heat floods my face. “I was studying your form.”

“Clearly.”

I hate how much he’s enjoying himself. This was supposed to be my game.

I reach for the cranberry juice again. His hand shoots out. “If you pick that glass up and put it back on bare wood, I am warning you right now⁠—”

My pulse jumps. “You’ll what?”

He goes still. Maybe I have a death wish. Or maybe I’m sick of waiting for him to decide boundaries are overrated. I lift the glass off the coaster.

“Jules.”

My stomach tightens. “What are you going to do about it?”

All the humor leaves his face. I set the glass down—beside the coaster. He reaches down, closes my laptop, and moves it and the cream puff out of reach.

“Gage.”

“You wanted my attention.”

My mouth goes dry. “I had your attention.”

He leans down, planting one hand on the couch beside my head, his shadow falling over me. My inner muscles tighten. “You’ve spent a week jumping out of cabinets, vandalizing my kitchen, murdering my sourdough, stealing my desserts, stringing fairy lights over everything, and scandalizing my furniture.” My heartbeat kicks harder. “You wanted a reaction.”