Page 21 of How To Catch A Killer … And Date His Best Friend

Suspicion begins creeping in. “You just get in?”

“Mm-hmm.”

My stare narrows on him, but I know better than to push about his work. If he wanted to tell me about it, he would, and clearly, it’s not in the cards tonight.

Hunter exhales something suspiciously close to amusement, and I grin wider. “So, this girl,” he says, picking up right where we left off. “You planning on seeing her again?”

I nod. “I’d be a fool to let her slip through my fingers,” I admit. “But I ain’t chasing. That little savage will come crawling to me.”

Hunter pauses, his head snapping up as his hand tightens on his whiskey. “What did you just call her?”

I blink, confused. “Savage.”

“Clarify.”

The fuck is wrong with this idiot?

“Clarify savage?”

“Yes.”

I laugh. “What, is there a broad savage spectrum I should be aware of?”

He doesn’t respond, just stares, waiting for me to give him what he wants, and I throw my hands out, having no fucking idea why the word caused this kind of reaction in him. “I don’t know. She’s feisty. Smart mouth, slightly terrifying, and has an attitude that could bring any man to his knees. I don’t know whether to kiss her feet or update my will. Why? What’s the problem?”

His brows furrow, and he slowly shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says. “It’s just . . . I took this girl out last week, and that’s what I called her.”

My jaw drops. Fuck the nickname, I’m stuck on the fact that this asshole just admitted to taking someone out. He’s private about the women he dates. He doesn’t talk about them. Period. And not because he doesn’t like to open up or because there’s no one to talk about. He goes through them just as frequently and efficiently as I do, he just doesn’t think any have been worth mentioning . . .

Until now.

I tread carefully, treating him like an injured bird who could freak out and shut down at the slightest movement. “You ahh . . . took a woman out?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Who is she?”

He shrugs. “No one that matters.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” I’m probably the only bastard on the planet capable of calling out Hunter Cole without losing my life. “If she didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have mentioned it, and you sure as fuck wouldn’t have been so worked up about some stupid nickname.”

Hunter rolls his eyes and throws back what’s left of his drink, seeming annoyed by the conversation, but I’m not about to let him off the hook so quickly.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” he says. “I fucked it up.”

My jaw drops, and I gape at my best friend. “You . . . what? You fucked it up? Did the great Hunter Cole just admit fault? No! It couldn’t be.” I start feeling around, searching the couch, table, and my pockets. “Quick. I need a pen and paper. I need to write this down.”

Hunter’s sigh is sharp enough to slit throats. “Don’t fucking start with me.”

I keep searching. “No, no. This is historical. It needs to be documented.”

Hunter just glares, and I grin. “Hit me with it,” I tell him. “What happened?”

He takes a heavy breath as if wondering if he’s really about to get into this with me. “I was out at a bar last week, killing time, and I met this chick. Fucking stunning, so I asked her out.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I took her out. We had a good time. Probably the only chick who’s called me on my shit. She wasn’t impressed or drooling, and she could keep the conversation going. Funny, even. I don’t know, I suppose I liked that.”