Page 80 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

“You understand this isn’t personal,” she says.

“It seems extremely personal.” I fidget.

“Correct. Poor phrasing.” She folds her hands on the desk, perfectly steady. “I vet anyone entering a meaningful relationship with someone I care about. Thoroughly.”

“How thoroughly?” I knot the fabric of my skirt beneath the desk, hoping she doesn’t notice.

Her eyes flick down. She notices. They lift and lock onto mine. “If I believed you were a danger to him, I would know significantly more about you than I do.”

I lean forward. “So hypothetically⁠—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“You were going to ask how far I’d go.” Her head tilts a fraction. “Far enough.”

Gage props his elbow on the armrest. “She once threatened to impersonate a federal agent.”

“I did not threaten,” Maisie corrects smoothly. “I identified it as a viable strategy.”

Oh, we are absolutely going to be friends. Unhinged recognizes unhinged.

“Did he tell you about the coaster thing?” I ask and poke his tickle spot.

“Hey!” he bellows and playfully smacks my arm. “Be good.”

“Make me, coaster control freak.” My brows dance.

Maisie’s attention cuts to her brother. “If this is an inside joke, it’s a breach of our NDA, Gage.”

He chuckles. “We still have plenty of inside jokes, Maise. And Jubilee is a slob.”

I proudly touch my chest. “I prefer domestically feral.”

Her eyes dart between us before centering on me. “Six.”

I squeeze his bicep in triumph. “I’m growing on her.” Seven minutes in, and I’m up two whole points. I whip back toward Maisie. “Oh! Did he tell you about Marzipan?”

Her body posture goes stiff. Beside me, Gage mutters, “Here we go.”

“She imprinted on me.”

Maisie juts her chin out. “Prove it.”

I pull out my phone. One touch, and the lock screen flares to life: Marzipan curled up on my chest.

Maisie regards her brother. “The fucking nerve.”

He lifts both hands in defense. “I had nothing to do with it. And I have plenty of video evidence.”

“Six months.” She jabs a finger toward the kennel room. “I spent six months nursing that fuzzy tyrant back to health in there. Then she lives with you for four years and barely tolerates either of us, and jubilant Jubilee struts through your front door, and suddenly she’s a goddamn cuddle bug?”

I cross my arms and lean back. “Excuse me, Miss Thing. I do not strut. I frolic—with intent.”

Her jaw tightens, and the corner of her mouth fights for its life. “Seven.”

I gasp and bounce once in my chair. “I’m getting you to ten.”