Page 14 of A Very Killer Christmas
I’m giddy, confused, and something else, something reckless and pivotal. I’ve never felt this way before, and I’m not sure I like it.
“Wet my bed?” he asks, shaking his head slowly. “Where did that come from?”
“Well, you’re a serial killer.” I speak fast to control the tumbling lightness in my stomach. “And that most likely means you’re a psychopath, and there are those criteria that determine psychopathic personality. I used to watch a lot of true crime shows, stuff about FBI profilers, and so on. So, did you?”
He blinks heavily and clears his throat. His lips are tipped in a small smile, and there’s a shine of wetness just where they meet. I yank my gaze away and focus on his cheek.
“Let’s see. No, I don’t think so. I was a pretty normal child. Played outside a lot. My parents weren’t perfect, but I wouldn’t say my childhood was traumatic or anything.”
I tilt my head to the side, unconvinced. “You said your mother is a narcissist.”
“Yeah. She’s self-absorbed and manipulative. My dad kept her in check when I was younger, but ever since he passed away, she’s gone off the rails. Last I saw her, she was trying to start a cult with her as the main priestess. I want nothing to do with that.”
I do my best to ignore the way his thumb rubs my waist in small circles while he speaks. His openness is fascinating. We’re basically strangers, yet he treats me like an old, trustworthy friend. It’s as if we’ve neatly jumped over all those painful stages of meeting someone new that I severely suck at.
“Okay, so you have a pathological relationship with your mother,” I sum up. “That’s actually one of the smaller indicators. The other big ones, aside from bed wetting, are arson and animal cruelty in childhood.”
I look at him expectantly and he hums, thinking. “That’s funny. I actually set something on fire when I was seven. My dad’s old garden shed. All I wanted was to make a small bonfire to roast marshmallows, but I built it too close to the shed, and it caught. Does that count? Am I a psychopath?”
His smile is open and genuine, eyes warm. My throat bobs as I swallow. Why is this man so attractive? He shouldn’t be. All the killers I ever saw on screen were on the homely side. Maybe that’s why they were caught?
“You’re too pretty to be one,” I blurt out, frustrated.
When he laughs, I shake my head and rush to explain. “No, I mean, you’re objectively pretty. The ancient Greeks had this notion ofkalos kagathos.It means ‘beautiful and good’, and it was this idea that a person who’s outwardly beautiful can’t be evil. And vice versa—unattractive people were considered more likely to be criminals. I think it’s still pervasive in our society. We expect beautiful people to be good, or at least better than others. That’s why no one in their right mind would say you’re a psychopath, even if you are.”
His eyes spark with pleasure. “You think I’m pretty. You’re attracted to me.”
My face heats with embarrassment, and I look away, trying to keep my blush from spreading. “No, I said you’re objectively attractive. That’s different.”
His laughter is low and warm, and it’s like a caress. My nape prickles with goosebumps.
“Ah, but there is no such thing as ‘objectively attractive’. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. You beheld me and said I’m pretty. I think you’re beautiful.”
I huff, embarrassed by how much this strange man affects me. “The Greeks were obviously wrong. You’re insufferable, ergo, you can’t actually be pretty, and I take back what I… Wait. What did you just say?”
His eyes are so very dark and inviting when they capture mine. “I said you’re beautiful.”
My throat is so dry, I swallow repeatedly to ease the tight burn. Rowley watches me with pleased amusement, and his face is a work of art I cannot look away from. His eyes are two deep wells, and I’m falling, and, oh, why are our faces suddenly so much closer? If I leaned in just a little bit, I could kiss him.
Kiss the killer.
I recoil so hard, I fall off his lap and crumple on the floor in a humiliated, miserable heap. Rowley springs to his feet to help me up, but I wave him away.
“No. Don’t get closer. I mean it.”
He takes a neat step back and watches as I roll and twist, trying to get up with some dignity. When I look up, he’s grinning.
“You’re overwhelmed by my magnetic charm, aren’t you?”
I huff, turning so he can’t see my red face. “No. I just remembered who you are.”
There’s silence, ominous and deep, and it stretches uncomfortably until I can’t take it any longer. My nape prickles, and my insides squirm with something, maybe fear, maybe guilt. When I turn to look at him, his expression is perfectly neutral, all the warmth and intimate amusement wiped clean.
I have a ridiculous urge to apologize. But why? I haven’t said anything hurtful, have I?
Rowley nods once, his mouth flattening in a determined line. He looks deadly serious, and I don’t understand why.
“You’re right. That’s prudent,” he says, quiet certainty in his voice. “But I won’t give up that easily.”
