Page 187 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Distracted.

Ridiculously gorgeous.

I nudge her shoulder with mine, grinning around my cup.

“You about ready to play good cop, bad cop?”

Poppy looks up, the light catching the pink sheen of her lip gloss.

“Oh yes,” she chirps. “Which one am I?”

I gaze at the ceiling like I’m offering a prayer.

“God, give me strength.”

Before I can answer, movement at the far end of the hallway kills my mood.

He strolls in like the smug bastard he is—tailored to perfection, dripping with confidence, and grinning like the building should thank him for showing up.

Graham Vexley.

Defense attorney douchebag. The same jackass who asked Poppy out the other day.

“Poppy,” he says, voice a little too warm.

And God help me, she smiles back.

Polite. Friendly. Familiar.

My jaw tightens.

He leans in, dropping his voice like they’re sharing an inside joke.

God, I want to punch him.

Have they dated?

The thought rips the air from my lungs.

Then I remember her confession at lunch. That flush in her cheeks.

If they did date, at least they didn’t kiss—he couldn’t have gotten far.

Something in my chest eases.

Only slightly.

The asshole vanishes into the interview room to confer with his sweating, soon-to-be-screwed client.

I watch the door shut, jaw still grinding.

Poppy nudges my arm, oblivious that I’m three seconds from a felony.

She leans in to show me something. Her hair brushes my arm—and lingers.

Just long enough to make me want to drag her out of here and fix that pesky little kiss problem.

Dickhead Graham pokes his head out and gives us a nod, all smarmy like this is just another day at the office.

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