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“It literally sounds like a dream. I’m so jealous I could rip your head off right now.”
She dismisses my threat of violence with a wave. “You’re a professor. You’ll still be making more money than me and doing a way more interesting job. I’ll be answering his emails and running his social media.”
“I’m an assistant professor. Did he say how much it pays?”
“He said he’ll be sending a contract over, but he asked if thirty dollars an hour would be acceptable.”
I sputter into my coffee. “Thirty? Yeah, you’re officially dead to me.”
“He’sreallycute.” She’s practically glowing. “I can ask if he’s single and set you up with him if you want.”
I scowl at her. Has she already forgotten the absolute shitstorm after my date with Austin? “Um, no. You saw how it went the last time I tried dating.”
“Think of it this way: The worst has already happened. So the next guy will definitely be your soulmate.” Mack shakes me again. “Come on, Briar. He’s anauthor. He’s hot and he buys books for sad women in bookstores! I couldn’t imagine a more perfect man for you if I tried.”
I shrug her off. “What’s his name?”
“Ugh. He told me his pen name and he sent me an employment contract to sign, but I can’t remember.” She pulls out her phone. “Let me check?—”
“Whatever. I’m not dating anyone for at least another fifty years.”
She slips her phone back into her pocket with a sigh and finally acknowledges my murder board. “What are you doing?”
I explain what happened with Saint to her. The bastard broke into my house, kissed me, and confessed to murder. Then offered to kill for meagain.
The worst part? The kiss is the moment I keep replaying most.
“So he was just standing there in your kitchen?” Mack repeats from my desk chair, her mouth hanging open. Cookie and Ginger are both attempting to curl up on her lap, neither doing so successfully.
“Yep.”
“And then he confessed tomurder?” she whisper-shouts the last word, glancing around like Saint might be lurking somewhere and overhear her.
Hell, he might be. With his track record, he could be lingering outside my window right now.
Just to be sure, I peer out into the yard. Nothing but sunlight shining down on the grass and oak tree. He’s smart enough not to trespass in the middle of the day, at least.
“Yes.”
“And then hekissedyou.”
“You’re all caught up.”
After that day Saint broke into my house, I realized he was right: I don’t have any proof that he killed Austin. His confession doesn’t mean jackshit, especially if I go to the cops and he denies it. They’re already suspicious of me. If I try to throw someone else under the bus—despite him being theactualguilty party—that’ll only increase their suspicion of me.
I need to be smarter than him. I need to get proof to take to the police. If I can do that, I’ll get him locked up for stalking me and killing Austin, and I won’t have to triple-check whether I’ve locked the door every night and patrol my house with a baseball bat.
Though the way he ripped that pan out of my hands and casually tossed it over his shoulder makes me think he’d simply wrench it from my grasp and snap the bat over his knee.
He said he’d never hurt me, but why else would he break into my house? Why watch me from my yard in a mask? Why kill a man for simply touching me?
Saint de Haas is an unhinged stalker. A dangerous man. Sultry words and soft lips aren’t enough to convince me he’s anything but.
Too bad for him, I’ve watched entirely too much true crime to let him get away with this shit. Between me and Mack, we’ll serve this bastard the justice he deserves.
“You need to start keeping a log of all the instances he stalks you so you can take everything to the police. The more evidence you have, the more likely they’ll be able to charge him.”
Mack is the only one I know who’s ever dealt with something like this—an ex who stalked and terrified her so much, she fled to the other side of the country.
