Page 39 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

Eclair and Cannoli offer commiseration in the form of dedicated head rubs. Tartlet pounces onto my shoulder in search of treats. Muffin has become a couch ball. Strudel remains absorbed in his masterwork on the cat scratcher.

By six that evening, I’ve edited three videos, scheduled four posts, answered forty-seven emails, approved two sponsorship invoices, paid the property taxes, ordered another month of chicken feed, and confirmed I remain comfortably wealthy.

I’ve accomplished an absurd amount. None of it worked. Neither does my evening workout. All I can think about is Jubilee. My fingertips mapping her. Her soft, pert tits in my palms. Fuck, how drenched she was for me. How gorgeous she was riding my hand. Her mouthwatering taste.

The strangest part isn’t the wanting. I’ve wanted women before. I’ve dated. Kissed. Touched. That fucking VIP event has haunted me for years. Too many bodies. Too much champagne. My cock never ended up inside anyone—but they didn’t listen when I said stop. Not when they undid my belt. Not when their mouths were on me and their bodies were rubbing against mine.

Jubilee doesn’t summon any of it. Not once. When she touches me, there’s only her. Being with her feels like breathing. Then, she banters or challenges me, and suddenly breathing isn’t effortless anymore. It’s violent and necessary—I want more of it, even while I’m drowning in it.

I rack the bar harder than necessary, sit up, and drag the hem of my tank over my face before reaching for the dumbbells. Curls become shoulder presses, then another set. None of it exhausts my imagination.

My Princess intrigues me in ways that have nothing to do with sex, which is highly inconvenient, considering I’ve also spent an embarrassing amount of time fantasizing about bending her like one of my signature pretzels.

My phone vibrates on the bench. Voicemail. My sister. I play it on speaker.

“Hey, Jerkface. You haven’t stopped by in a while, and Mom wants to know if you’ll be at Sunday dinner next weekend.”

The date has been sitting at the edge of my awareness for weeks. My schedule is a hostage situation, but I carve out two Sunday dinners a month.

“Anyway, the café cats miss you. I miss my nieces and nephews. Mom misses you. I miss you too, for the record, although saying it aloud has caused me physical discomfort. You know vulnerability makes me ill.”

I laugh softly.

“If your absence continues, I’ll have no choice but to assume you’ve found a female. One without fur. And I shouldn’t need to remind you that our bargain is legally and spiritually binding. Any romantic candidates must be screened and tested. I also shouldn’t need to remind you which one of us is more unhinged.” A pause. “It’s me.” Another pause. “Love you, Jerkface.”

Three photos arrive immediately. My sister holding a profoundly unimpressed orange cat at the café. Mom flipping off whoever took the picture while stirring a pot on the stove. And one of Nana Noreene perfecting her apple crisp with the caption: Bring it, pastry boy.

I will introduce Jubilee to them…soon.

God, I’m thinking of her again. Because my brain is conspiring against me—and maybe another vital organ.

I think about the old pictures of her on horseback. There were more than I expected.

After a shower and appropriate dress for a nightclub, I bid farewell to my fur babies. “Daddy’s going out.”

CHAPTER 11

Jubilee

Saint Violet has always brought out my Coyote Ugly complex. Not the dancing-on-the-bar part. Not usually. One New Year’s Eve, after three Fireball shots and a temporary brain shutdown, I gave an unforgettable performance of the Cha Cha Slide.

The second I step behind this bar, instinct clicks into place. The bass rattles the bottles on the shelves, purple and crimson light washes over exposed bricks, and the air smells like sweat, citrus, expensive perfume and cologne, and spilled beer. Later, it will be industrial-strength disinfectant.

My world shrinks to orders, bottles, hands, glasses, money. I can hold three drink orders in my head while somebody at the opposite end waves a twenty like they personally invented tipping. This and hacking are my biggest strengths. Okay, I’m decent at basic magic tricks.

I slide two martinis toward a couple celebrating an anniversary, collect cash from a man drinking gin, then catch the cocktail shaker I tossed into the air without looking.

The woman in front of me cheers. I give her a bow.

“Do it again!”

“Tips inspire miracles,” I bait.

She puts another five into the jar. See? Magic. I flip a lime over the back of my hand, catch it between two fingers, then make her cocktail pick vanish into my palm before producing it from behind her ear.

She claps with delight. “Oh, my God.”

“Seven years at Hogwarts.”