In this edition of Murder Monthly: The Gentleman Hitman – kill them with kindness.
I blink at him, my shoulders tense as wariness creeps down my spine. I get up slow, trying to recall whether there were any articles about the Vigilante Choker dabbling in cannibalism. That would make more sense than Flynn actually caring about my wellbeing.
It’s not till I walk down the hall and through the open door to the cottage style kitchen that I realize this could work to my advantage.
The kitchen has knives.
I pad in bare feet over the tiled floor. The space is small, barely fitting the wooden dining table my gran and I used to eat at. My hand is on the filigreed handle of the knife drawer when Flynn’s voice stops me.
“Remember that thing about home-owner’s weapons being used against them?”
I look over my shoulder to find him leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s tall, over six foot, and the muscles in his arms rival Michelangelo’s statues. I’m tiny. I don’t stand a chance against him. I guess I could try throwing the knife, but I spent every pee-wee softball game sitting on the bench after that one time they put me on the pitching mound, and I hit an outfielder in the head. Don’t ask me how.
Flynn’s gaze softens. “You’re hungry, Lilac. Make yourself something to eat.”
“My name’s Hazel.”
His lip twitches. “I know.”
My shoulders heave as I breathe in deep and sigh the air out. I don’t know how to deal with this man so I take my life into my own hands and turn my back on him to make myself some damn food. Except my stomach is so twisted up it may as well be a pretzel.
I go on tippy-toes to grab two mugs from the cupboard above the toaster. It’s not till I turn back around and catch Flynn’s eyes locked on my legs, the muscles in his throat hard, that I remember I’m in mynight shirt.And of course today is the day I happened to wear the skimpiest pair of panties I have because all the rest are in the wash and I hate doing laundry with a venom.
My ears burn and twin fires warm my cheeks.
Flynn’s hands clench into fists by his sides as he drags his gaze back up to my face.
I spin away so I don’t have to look at him and step over to the fridge. The cold air chills my heated face when I open it and I wonder whether I’m small enough to just crawl inside and shut the door.
Breaking News: woman found dead from hyperthermia in her own fridge. Other notable items include a half-eaten cheesecake and two-week-old Chinese take-out.
I snag the gallon of milk and fill up the mugs before placing them in the microwave.
“You need proper food,” Flynn says as I reach into the cupboard for the hot chocolate powder.
I thump the container on the counter before turning to face him. “No offense, Flynn, but if I eat anything right now, I’m likely to chuck it up all over your feet.” Feet which, by the way, are completely bare. Hand on heart I have never before found feet attractive, but there’s something about Flynn walking around bare foot in my kitchen that has heat chasing up my neck.
“Fair enough.” He slides the wooden chair out from under the table and takes a seat. In my kitchen. At my table.
I’ve domesticated a serial killer.
The microwave pings.
I spin around and pop the door open, trying not to burn my fingers as I lift the mugs out. I have two types of mugs in this house, my gran’s old floral ones and mine, which have slogans on them. I dump two heaped spoons of hot chocolate powder into the mugs and give Flynn the one which saysI’d Kill for a Coffeein pink lettering because, honestly, I’m a sucker for irony.
He blinks at the mug then swipes the side of his hand across his mouth to hide what I’m pretty sure was a smile. “Make hot chocolate for all the guys who climb in your bedroom window do you?”
“Only the ones I want to poison.”
He quirks an unfairly perfect brow.
“I’ve been told my cooking skills leave something to be desired.” I shoot him a dry look and bring my mug up to my lips, blowing on the steaming cocoa.
Flynn keeps his gaze on me as he lifts his own mug and takes a sip. He grimaces.
“It’s not actually poisoned,” I say.
He sets the mug back down. “I know. I just didn’t think it was possible to burn milk.”
