Page 90 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

“We could call it Jubilage.”

“As long as we don’t open a pharmacy.”

He simpers, then studies me as he tucks the blanket around my shoulder. “You’re surprisingly reasonable about all of this.”

“Well, I’m with Gage Cannon.” Another yawn stretches my jaw. “And the cat’s officially out of the bag. It’s a relief. Now it’s look but don’t touch.”

A chuffed laugh leaves him. “It already was.”

“Granted.” I let my eyes fall shut and smile into the pillow. “But now they know I’m the only one who gets to touch. Because you’re mine.”

“Your boyfriend?”

I peep one eye open. “We don’t need labels.”

He rolls his eyes. “Touché, Princess.”

I close my eyes again, smug as hell, and pass out.

THREE WEEKS LATER

I’m in heaven.

Okay, the Renaissance Festival. I’m wearing a custom replica of Buttercup’s wedding gown, and the Dread Pirate Roberts is holding my hand.

My life has become beautifully ridiculous.

The gown alone probably costs more than my first car. I told Gage repeatedly while the seamstress fitted layers of silver-white fabric around me. He merely asked if the crystal-and-pearl crown needed more sparkle. The result is annoyingly worth it: fitted bodice, flowing silver-embroidered skirt, delicate sleeves, loose curls beneath the glittering crown—and two hidden pockets added after Gage gravely informed the seamstress it was necessary for my survival.

Beside me, Gage is dressed entirely in black. Linen shirt, fitted trousers, boots, sash, gloves, and a mask which hides his identity surprisingly well.

Three weeks ago, Jubilage wasn’t a word. Now it’s a channel. Gage created it after the cat café; I guess sleep is optional when you have five million followers. By the time I woke up, he’d uploaded enough footage to document my invasion of his life.

The coaster incident made the first compilation. So did the fairy lights and him throwing me over his shoulder. Then came the reel of me stealing frosting, smashing a cupcake into his face, and running around the kitchen while the cats scattered. He caught me behind the island, smeared frosting down my cheek, and I kissed some off his mouth. So many hearts filled the screen, it looked infected.

Most nights, I sleep in Gage’s bed while the cats claim the most mattress. He’s still taking us slowly—almost obnoxiously so. We haven’t crossed the final line yet, but I don’t push.

We have a rhythm. I work. He drives me when he can and picks me up often enough, the bartenders call his SUV my royal carriage. Most mornings, I wake with Marzipan on my chest and Gage freeing his legs, which Tartlet considers communal property.

Mom is back home and doing better. Not magically or neatly, but better. We have dinner multiple times a week, sometimes with Gage, sometimes at the café with Maisie, who believes my mother is acceptable, but requires continued observation. Mom adores her. Maisie pretends this is inconvenient.

The Festival explodes around us in autumn color. Scarlet and gold banners flutter above timber-framed stalls while the air smells like roasting meat, cinnamon, cider, damp leaves, and the forest. Somewhere beyond the crowd, drums pound beneath the shrieks of children wielding wooden swords.

I love every inch of it.

A woman in enormous green fairy wings passes us, followed by a man carrying three turkey legs and a live ferret.

I squeeze Gage’s hand. “This is my natural habitat.”

He lowers his head, his breath brushing my cheek. “I gathered that about four minutes after we arrived.”

“I could live here.”

“You’d last six hours before you started hunting for Wi-Fi,” he says dryly.

“Peasant.”

His gloved fingers tighten around mine. “Pirate,” he corrects. “And Princess.” He kisses my cheek.