Page 191 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Declan’s long legs stretch out, one boot crossed over the other. His dark gray T-shirt clings to shoulders and arms that absolutely don’t skip gym day. His badge flashes against the dark denim of his jeans, and the shadow from his baseball cap casts his face in something sharper.

Something dangerous.

And, frankly, devastatingly edible.

I’m still looking when he cuts his eyes at me. A smirk ghosts across his full mouth before he pretends to check his phone.

Graham tries to recover, grinning like his orthodontist charged by the compliment. “How about we talk about that deal over dim sum?”

I open my mouth to shut it down—but Declan beats me to it, voice like sandpaper.

“We had that yesterday.”

I choke on a snort, barely recovering.

Graham scoffs. “You always have your watchdog talk for you, Hartwell?” He’s looking at Declan but angling it at me.

Declan lifts his gaze—slow, surgical.

“Do you always piss in the corner when your clients throw tantrums?”

Oof. Right in the fragile masculinity.

Graham mutters something and stalks off with the dignity of a dropped sandwich.

“We’ll talk soon!” I call sweetly.

Declan tucks his phone away and turns to leave, smug as sin.

“Hey! You don’t get to just—” My reprimand dies mid-sentence. Because, God. Those jeans. That booty. Somebody sedate me.

“Good job in there, Lollipop,” he calls without looking back.

I’m too busy admiring the certified double scoop situation going on in those jeans to remember I owe him a response.

“I thought my name was Poppy!”

He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute, smirking as he disappears around the corner.

And son of a butternut squash, I’m smiling too.

Declan disappears just in time for my ADA to appear in his place, all business and biting impatience.

“Get your ass in 3B, Hartwell. You’re second chair for Lewis on bond hearings.”

I blink. “I thought I was under investigation.”

“You are. That’s why you’re second,” Benjamin replies, slapping a case folder against my chest and continuing down the hall. “Let’s not pretend this is a reward. It’s fucking bonds for Christ’s sake.”

I mutter something about occupational whiplash but follow. Refusing an assignment won’t do me any favors, especially while my license is still hanging by a thread.

There hasn’t even been time to process what came out of that interview room—an underground auction, a countdown on lives. And now here I am, being shuffled off to babysit bond hearings like the world isn’t about to burn down.

Courtroom 3B smells like too much perfume and not enough hope. Lewis is already at the table, whispering to herself and flipping through files like they might sprout wings and fly away. I slide into the seat beside her, smoothing my skirt and trying to pretend this is just another ordinary hearing.

I start scanning the docket. Disorderly conduct. Petty theft. The usual parade of bad choices.

Oh, perfect. Judge Maxwell is on the bench today. Every perp may walk today on principle she can’t stand me.

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