Page 10 of How To Catch A Killer … And Date His Best Friend

I laugh as we step inside, and I’m immediately in awe. The place is nice. Really nice. Quiet enough to actually hear each other talk without screaming over bass-heavy music. Dark booths. Low lighting. Old whiskey lining shelves on the walls. It’s beautiful, and considering where I’ve just spent the majority of my night, it’s a refreshing contrast.

We stop by the bar and order a drink. Whiskey for Hunter, and a cocktail for me, and the moment they’re delivered to our waiting hands, Hunter indicates toward the door that leads to the outdoor patio.

I nod, and as we’re walking, a sense of comfort washes through me. He holds the door open like the perfect gentleman before leading me to a table, and as he does, I can’t help but notice something. The exits, and more specifically, the way he seems to clock every last one of them before he even sits.

Back door. Side alley gate. Main entrance reflection in the window beside us.

He chooses the seat facing the patio entrance, leaving his back protected by the brick wall, and I file that little piece of information away. It’s interesting. Most people don’t move like that. They aren’t constantly aware of every possible threat around them, and it leaves me more curious about this man than I’ve been all night. Perhaps he’s got trauma, something that makes him need to be aware of things like this. Maybe he’s a soldier. Hell, maybe he’s a crazed psychopath after all. I suppose it’s a mystery that I’ll be finding out.

Hunter settles into his chair, completely still, no nervous fidgeting or wasted movements. He seems to be very deliberate and controlled. It’s the sign of a dangerous man, and while I know red flags should be going up all around and telling me to run for the hills, I’m more than intrigued.

“You’re staring,” he says calmly, but his tone suggests that he prefers it this way, that he likes my full attention.

Leaning forward, I rest my elbow against the table as I shamelessly continue taking him in. “I’m observing.”

“I see. Dare I ask what kind of observations you’ve been making?”

I purse my lips. “Oh, I don’t know if you can handle them.”

He leans forward, bringing himself closer to me as he mimics my position. “Try me.”

Everything flutters, and I grin as I lean back in my chair, pretending to think it over, but really, I’ve been coming up with this list since the moment I dropped to my knees before him on my bar. “Mysterious. Socially concerning. Probably has several bodies buried somewhere remote.”

Hunter takes a slow sip of whiskey. “Only several?”

The casual response catches me so off guard that I choke on my drink, but he just watches me with amusement, not even attempting to help the coughing mess he just turned me into. “You’re an asshole,” I wheeze, laughing around my sputtering.

Hunter shrugs his shoulders, a sly grin resting on his lips as he reaches for his whiskey and takes another sip. “You started profiling me first.”

“Fair.”

A smirk tugs at his mouth as he places his glass down. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You spend all night reading people behind a bar. What do your notes say about yourself?”

Well shit. That catches me more off guard than the pile of bodies he joked about, and honestly, I don’t know this guy nearly enough to give a serious answer, so I just shrug the same way he had. “Oh, I’m deeply unsettling.”

“I noticed.”

I grin. “And yet here you are.”

His eyes lock onto mine, holding me captive with his stare alone. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for punishment.”

God, this man is trouble.

“So what’s your deal?” I ask, dragging my attention away from the way his forearms flex against the table. “You secretly married? Running from the mafia? Emotionally unavailable?”

“Something like that.”

The way he says it makes it impossible to tell if he’s kidding, and I lean back, watching him closely, trying to figure out who he truly is, because honestly, he’s giving me nothing at all. But I suppose the same could be said for me. All I know is that the mystery somehow makes me like him more.

Time seems to disappear. One drink turns into two, which quickly becomes three. The conversation flows. I tell him all about my bar and life, and while Hunter doesn’t talk much about himself, I’m starting to piece him together. He’s full of dry humor and sharp intelligence, but he also has moments of wild possessiveness that absolutely should not be attractive. It’s like he’s weaving a web around me, but I can’t bring myself to pull away.

My gaze sails over him, starting to wonder just how much longer it will be until he finally stands, grabs my ass, and demands I go home with him, when his phone buzzes against the table.

Both our eyes flick toward it, and for the first time all night, something cracks through that calm expression. It’s tiny, barely noticeable, but there’s no denying that it’s there. The question is: what is it? Annoyance? Frustration?