Page 24 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

“Serial killer houses often do. Helps with the cleanup.”

His mouth twitches. “Would you like a tour?”

“I’d like to know where the exits are.”

“Front door, back door, and technically the windows open wide enough to climb through if you’re motivated.”

“I’m noting that for later.”

He leads me inside, and the interior is exactly what I expected based on the exterior: clean lines, expensive furniture, everything in its place. The books on his shelves are alphabetized by author’s last name, then by publication date within author. I can see it from across the room. It’s both impressive and slightly unhinged.

Of course his books are organized by publication date. Of course they are.

“You live here alone?” I ask again, running my fingers along the back of a leather couch that probably costs more than my annual rent. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, thirty-four with a wife and a boat?”

“No boat.” He’s in the kitchen now, doing something that involves opening cabinets with unnecessary precision. “The lake talks too much.”

I pause. “The lake talks?”

“Old joke.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s very old.”

“How old can a joke about a lake be?”

“Old enough.”

That’s not an answer. That’s barely even a deflection.

I tuck it away with the rest. At this rate I’m going to need a filing cabinet.

“This isn’t a house,” I announce, wandering toward the windows. “It’s a museum. A very clean, very organized, slightly intimidating museum.”

“Is it intimidating?”

“Everything about you is intimidating.” I turn to face him. “The height. The jaw. The sweater collection. The fact that you apparently read romance novels and remember details about carriage scenes.”

“The carriage scene was very well-written.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

I open my mouth to answer, then close it, because I don’t actually know what the point is. I just know that standing in his perfect house, surrounded by his perfect furniture, looking at his perfect face, I feel like I’ve wandered into a book I haven’t read the back cover of. Like I missed some crucial piece of setup that would make all of this make sense.

“This is a sexy museum,” I say finally, because my brain-to-mouth filter has completely given up. “Your house is a sexy museum and I don’t know what to do with that information.”

A flicker moves through his eyes. A look almost like heat, quickly controlled.

“Did you just call my house sexy?”

“Did I stutter?”

“You did not.”

“Then yes. I called your house sexy. Your house is sexy. You can put that on your listing if you ever sell. ‘Gorgeous A-frame, mountain views, aggressively sexy atmosphere.’”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He’s looking at me, and his eyes are darker now than they were a moment ago, more focused, and I realize suddenly that we’re standing too close. That at some point during my rambling, I wandered toward the kitchen and he turned to face me and now there’s maybe two feet of space between us.