X Marks the Stalker

Book 1: The Hemlock Society

by K.N. Wilder

Genres: New Adult Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

She hunts killers. He is one. Opposites attract has never been so literal.Crime journalist Oakley Novak has built her career exposing Boston’s darkest secrets, but she never expected a serial killer to turn the tables and stalk her.

Xander Rhodes spent weeks watching her through hidden cameras, captivated by her sharp mind and relentless drive, until she catches him red-handed and, instead of running, challenges him with a glare that could melt steel.
Xander’s either found his soulmate or lost his damn mind. Probably both.

When Oakley recruits him for her revenge plan against the man who murdered her parents, their partnership shatters every rule of Xander's secret murder society.
Now they're being hunted by both sides—the law and the shadows—while racing against time to take down the untouchable enemy who took everything from her.

If you’re obsessed with dark romance laced with wicked humor, serial killers with a knack for banter, and heroines who wield wit as sharply as weapons, this sinful story will carve its way into your soul.

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 464

Sample

If there’s a worse way to start your day than scraping intestines off your shoes, I’d love to hear it.

I drag my sole across the edge of a marble step, dislodging what used to be a part of Boston’s most notorious art dealer.

The police took Klein’s body, or whatever was left of him, hours ago. But apparently, the chunk of liver now smearing my Converse didn’t make the cut for evidence collection.

A wave of nausea hits me, not from the sight, but from the sheer mess of it all. This wasn’t in the plan.

“For God’s sake, Calloway, you borrow my cameras for one simple murder and forget to remove them from an active crime scene? The entire principle of the hemlock society is ‘Your Hunt, Your Mess.’ And right now, your mess is all over my new shoes.”

I crouch beside the stark white chalk outline where Klein had been transformed from a pedophile art dealer to a Jackson Pollock original.

“Thorne’s going to have both our asses if this traces back to us. You know how he feels about sloppy work, and I’m not taking the fall because you got ’inspired’ during an assignment.”

We exist because the system fails, not to become part of its evidence locker.

“Art requires sacrifice, Xander,” Calloway huffs. “Even Thorne appreciates my methods. That’s why he assigned me to this target in the first place.”

The scene is a CSI nightmare. Blood has crusted into the fine Italian marble in arterial sprays that form a perfect golden ratio. What appears to be a fragment of ear cartilage nestles between floor tiles. Tissue samples decorate the baseboards like modern art installations. Klein’s essence is everywhere.

I step over a puddle of coagulated bodily fluids that definitely weren’t covered in my surveillance equipment warranty.

“This is why we can’t have nice things. Like freedom and no prisons.”

“Perfection takes focus, Xander,” Calloway huffs. “Do you think Rembrandt cleaned up after himself? I was crafting a masterpiece, not… sanitizing.”

“Yeah? Well, your ‘masterpiece’ left an intestine in the grout,” I snap, sidestepping a squelchy bit of something I’m pretty sure used to be Klein’s pancreas. “Next time, maybe try murdering without treating a marble floor like it’s a goddamn paint palette. Or at least use a drop cloth.”

“Noted.” He sounds amused, the smug bastard.

Smug doesn’t even begin to cover it. Calloway could sip tea while the house burned around him.

“Did you find all the cameras yet?” he asks.

“Working on it,” I mutter, glancing around the room.

“Oh, and while you’re there—” Calloway’s voice turns casual in that way that signals trouble “—could you check if they found Klein’s left eye? It sort of… popped out and rolled under the cupboard. I was going to retrieve it, but then inspiration struck for the intestinal arrangement.”

My stomach lurches. I can handle dismemberment, viscera, brains… Everything goes. But eyes? Something about eyeballs makes my skin crawl. The thought of one rolling around… Gross.

“The police would have taken it,” I say, fighting the urge to vomit. “They’re thorough, unlike some artists I know.”

“Shame.” Calloway sighs. “It had the most fascinating green flecks. I was considering a companion piece.”

“I’m hanging up now,” I say, swallowing bile. “Also, I’m billing you for emotional damages.”

“Emotional damages?” Calloway scoffs. “You’re the most emotionally constipated man alive, Xander. The only thing you’re capable of feeling is mild inconvenience.”

I crouch to retrieve a camera, my fingers brushing over its sleek surface. “For the record, I feel deep inconvenience right now. A soul-crushing inconvenience. The kind that requires therapy, a complete biohazard suit, and a lifetime supply of pizza.”

I straighten up and take in the Nelson Rivera Gallery. The space screams overpriced minimalism. Sharp angles and negative space, with gleaming white walls that rise twenty feet to exposed industrial ductwork painted matte black.

Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that somehow make even mediocre paintings look profound, like they’re worth re-mortgaging your house just to own one.

In the far corner, a small red dot near the air vent catches my eye. Another one of my cameras, its lens now pointed at me. The damn thing is positioned to capture both the murder scene and the main entrance.

Calloway couldn’t spare two minutes to retrieve it, lost in his macabre vision. It’s always like this with him. Brilliant, but utterly impractical. And I’m the one left to clean up the pieces. It’s a dynamic I’ve come to accept from my friend.

“Fortunately for you,” I whisper into my phone, “I planned for your inevitable artistic distraction.” I glance up at the tiny device. “Same exact model as the gallery’s security system. CX-5000. Even used the same mounting hardware.”

The police milling around haven’t given it a second look. Why would they? It matches the dozen other security cameras throughout the space.

“You mean you—”

“Anticipated your complete disregard for operational security?” I finish for Calloway. “Yes. It’s called contingency planning, not that you’d know anything about that.” I keep my voice low. “The Rivera Gallery upgraded its system last month. I made sure our additions blended right in.”

I stare at a hideous painting of either a sunset or a pizza dropped on asphalt. Two hundred thousand dollars, according to the tiny placard. I’m in the wrong profession. Well, the wrong legal profession.

“They’ll pull the footage eventually, but by the time they realize the angles don’t add up with the other cameras, we’ll be long clear.”

Calloway makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and admiration. “Not paranoid at all, are you?”

“I prefer the term ‘methodically prepared.’ But sure, insult the guy saving your ass.” I pause by a sculpture that looks like someone welded kitchen utensils to a mannequin. “Remind me again why I still help you?”

“Because I’m the only one who remembers your birthday?”

I pick up the second camera tucked into a bookshelf, its lens aimed at the now-empty death tableau. “Found camera two.”

I reach for a third camera tucked behind a hideous modern art sculpture when a soft click freezes me in place.

The gallery’s front door. Fuck.

My pulse spikes as footsteps echo through the entrance hall.

“Someone’s here,” I whisper, ending the call and diving behind a massive sculpture ironically titled Hidden Witness just as the door opens.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, uncertain but determined. “Is someone in here?”

Shit. The cleaning service wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow. I checked. I always check.

I press myself against the wall, calculating escape routes. The back exit is just twenty feet away, but I’d have to cross the main gallery floor to reach it.

I peer around the edge of the sculpture, just enough to catch a glimpse of her.

Time stutters.

That dark ponytail pulls tight, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck. A few stray strands cling, drawing my eye. Her face isn’t just pretty; it’s striking. Sharp lines and soft curves that stop my thoughts cold.

She moves with the kind of focus that makes you forget there’s blood crusting the floor. No flinching. No hesitation.

Well, fuck me sideways with a murder weapon. This is an unexpected plot twist. And I hate unexpected plot twists.

She’s not with the police, not officially, anyway. Definitely not supposed to be here.

She ducks under the crime scene tape and moves through the space, photographing everything with the confidence of someone who’s broken into a dozen crime scenes before breakfast.

I watch as she examines the blood spatter patterns, her expression clinical rather than horrified. Latex gloves snap against her wrists as she pulls them on before crouching to examine the crusted blood. She pulls out her phone, tapping the record button.

“Rivera Gallery scene,” she murmurs into the device. “Blood pattern consistent with previous Gallery Killer murders. Arterial spray. Intentional, not coincidental. Same signature as the others, victim connected to the art world…”

She photographs the chalk outline, taking meticulous shots of the void patterns where evidence has been collected.

Most people see the blood and recoil. She sees the patterns. She sees the story. She sees it… like I do.

“Based on previous scenes, the body was likely positioned to mirror a painting’s composition. Need to get crime scene photos to confirm and check autopsy report for any extracted organs, but I’m sure it’s him. Everything matches The Gallery Killer.”

The Gallery Killer. Of course, Calloway gets a cool nickname in the press while I’m out here doing twice the work with zero branding. Life is unfair. What would they even call me? The Lurking Stalker? The Camera Guy? The Creepy Tech Support?

She kneels beside the empty computer desk, running her fingers along the edges where the police have removed Rivera’s desktop computer.

“They’ve taken the digital records,” she murmurs to the absent victim, “but I bet you kept backups somewhere. You seem like the paranoid type.” She’s talking to a dead man, analyzing his habits. She’s just like me. Almost.

She searches the room, checking bookshelves, tapping walls for hidden safes, and examining floorboards for loose sections.

She pauses at the exact spot where I’d just removed Calloway’s camera, frowning slightly as she notices the dust pattern.

“Something was here,” she murmurs, touching the clean spot amidst the dusty residue. “Recently removed. Police?” She takes a photo of the empty space, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Or the killer?”

She’s smart.

The woman moves close to my hiding spot, her fingers tracing along the shelves near my sculpture. I can smell her shampoo. Flowery, with a clean bite. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean closer, even if it means explaining why you’re lurking in a blood-soaked gallery.

Her phone rings, making both of us jump.

“Morgan, I can’t talk right now,” she whispers, eyes still scanning the room. “Because I’m at Rivera’s gallery… No, the police tape doesn’t apply to real journalists.”

Ah. A journalist. Of course. A journalist with both boundary issues and incredible cheekbones.

She listens, frowning.

“I know what the official report said, but this is definitely another Gallery Killer scene. The blood spatter and body were arranged like Caravaggio’s David and Goliath. An officer let me have a peek. The killer is getting more theatrical with each murder.”

Another pause as she examines a splash of blood on the wall that would have Calloway preening with pride. Artistic temperament—so predictable. Like a toddler wanting you to put his finger painting on the fridge, except the finger painting is made with actual fingers.

“…because the other victims were all connected to the art market. How much more—” She stops abruptly, looking back at the shelf. “It’s an excellent location for a camera. Were you filming yourself?”

She tilts her head. “No, not you. Have to go, Morgan.” She hangs up.

Shit. She’s good. Too good.

I slide my phone out, keeping the movement slow and deliberate behind the sculpture.

I raise my phone just enough to frame her on the screen. Her profile catches the gallery’s dramatic lighting, creating sharp contrasts against her features.

Click.

I lower the phone, making a mental note to run her face through recognition software later. If she’s sniffing around Calloway’s handiwork, I need to know who she is and how much trouble she’s going to cause.

She moves toward the back office, giving me a momentary opening. I check the photo I took. Clear, detailed, usable. Her eyes stare at something off-camera.

This is why I always insist on surveillance first. Know everything before making a move. No unwanted surprises. I save the image, tucking the phone away as I calculate my next move.

Her gaze sweeps the room. My muscles lock. I melt into the wall, barely breathing as her eyes pass inches from my hiding spot. A droplet of sweat slides cold down my spine.

My thumb grazes the knife in my pocket. It would take three seconds to cross the distance, cover her mouth, and sink the knife into her neck before she could scream. Clean. Efficient.

Except… My stomach knots at the image of those intelligent eyes going blank, her notebook falling from limp fingers. The thought sits wrong.

Usually, I’m all about efficiency in the whole “eliminate witnesses” department, but something about the way she’s piecing together the case makes me want to see what she’ll do next.

Her phone blares again. Her boss, based on her expression of mingled irritation and alarm.

“Morgan, I literally can’t—” She pauses, listening. “A press conference? Now? About The Gallery Killer?”

The universe has a sick sense of humor. Almost as sick as my collection of surveillance footage of people who don’t know they’re about to die.

“Fine. I’m on my way.” She takes one last look at the shelf where Calloway’s camera had been, snaps a final photo, and heads for the door, muttering about power-hungry police chiefs and their convenient timing.

The moment the door clicks shut, I exhale, looking down at my shoes, now decorated with human tissue. Perfect. I’ll need to burn these. And I liked these fucking shoes.

“That was closer than the time I accidentally dated a homicide detective,” I murmur, retrieving the remaining two cameras while trying to avoid leaving bloody footprints across the marble. Nothing says professional quite like turning a pristine crime scene into a macabre game of Twister.

Back in my car, I call Calloway. “You owe me. Big time. This is absolutely the last time I lend you my equipment.”

“Did you get everything? Please tell me you got everything.” His voice pitches higher.

“My cameras, yes,” I respond, watching the building’s entrance where the mystery woman is now hurrying toward an Uber. “Your murder scene nearly became my crime scene when someone crashed the party.”

“Someone was there? Who?” The panic in his voice would be satisfying if I weren’t still picking human remains from my clothes.

“A journalist. She called you ‘The Gallery Killer’ while recording notes into her phone.” I slouch in my seat as she slides into her ride. “Apparently, you’re famous enough to have your own nickname now. Meanwhile, I’ll probably end up in a footnote as ‘unnamed accomplice found in dumpster after mysterious accident.’”

“The Gallery Killer?” His voice perks up, artistic vanity trumping survival instinct. “That’s actually quite good. Has a certain ring to it. Did she mention—”

“No, she didn’t critique your use of intestines as decorative elements.” I cut him off before his ego reaches critical mass. “But she did nearly walk in on me while I was collecting the surveillance equipment you forgot.”

“What does she look like? Who is she?” His questions machine-gun through the phone.

“She’s beautiful, and I don’t know yet,” I reply, starting my car while watching her ride disappear around a corner. “But I’m going to find out. And you’re buying me new shoes.”

BACK IN MY APARTMENT, I pull up facial recognition software, running her image through various databases. Within minutes, I have a name.

Oakley Novak, crime journalist for The Boston Beacon. Her bylines include several in-depth pieces on unsolved murders and corruption. Her social media presence is minimal but focused. She’s not into selfies, just work. A woman after my own black heart.

I should report this to Thorne. Protocol says anyone investigating the Hemlock Society is a threat. Society comes first. End of discussion. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, proceed directly to murder.

Instead, I create a new encrypted folder on my secure server. I download everything about her. Birth certificate. College transcripts. Medical records. Credit score. Every article she’s ever published. The metadata from her phone.

My standard background check spirals into a three-hour deep dive. I hack her phone’s cloud backup. Her photo roll is ninety percent crime scenes, nine percent reference images, and a single blurry picture of a stray cat. No selfies. No beach vacations. No drunken party shots.

God, she’s fascinating.

Instead of my usual red X marking a target for elimination, I draw a blue X over her building on my map. Different color. Different intention.

My phone buzzes with a message.

Thorne

Situation contained?

All clear.

Thorne

Any complications?

My thumb hovers over the screen. In four years with the Society, I’ve never broken the rules. Never put my interests above the family’s safety. Never lied to the man who gave me a place to belong when I had nothing.

Not once.

I’ve also never found someone who catalogs crime scenes with the same obsessive attention to detail that I do.

I stare at the screen, at the photos of Oakley examining Calloway’s handiwork with such focus, and make a decision I’ve never made before.

No.

I lie to the most dangerous man I know. I’m either evolving or having a psychotic break. The line between the two is remarkably thin.

I open my surveillance equipment drawer, the one with the good stuff, not the ones I loan to Calloway when I’m feeling generous. Japanese micro-cameras I modified myself with a battery life that outlasts most relationships.

I pack my gear into a nondescript backpack, adding an extra battery bank and my prototype audio enhancement module. Most people would call it stalking. I call it… selective admiration. Tomato, tomahto.

All I know is that watching her work at that crime scene was the most interesting thing I’ve experienced in years, and I’m not ready to end the show.

Oakley Novak doesn’t know it yet, but our paths are now inextricably linked. And for the first time in my existence, I’m not following the protocol.

I’m following her. And if Thorne finds out, I’ll be the next body on the marble floor.

My therapist says I have an unhealthy relationship with sugar. She calls it emotional dependency. I call it investigative fuel. The real crime is how many gummy worms it takes to stay awake during a stakeout.

Acid burns my tongue as I bite the head off another neon worm, the sour shock jolting my brain back to attention. Different crimes require different candies.

Bank fraud? Chocolate-covered espresso beans. Political corruption? Sour Patch Kids. But serial killers who arrange their victims like Renaissance paintings? That demands the nuclear option. Triple-sour gummy worms.

The camera lens focuses with a soft click on the gleaming doors of the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. Through the viewfinder, men in tailored suits float between luxury cars and the marble steps like sharks circling prey.

Somewhere behind those doors hides the key to the Gallery Killer case. Four art collectors, four poison deaths, four bodies posed like Renaissance paintings, and nothing but silence from Boston PD. But I’ve got a feeling about this place.

My notepad crinkles as I flip through crime scene photos. A waxen corpse arranged like Saturn Devouring His Son from last year. Another mimicking Christ of Saint John of the Cross four months ago. A third recreating Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes just weeks back.

And two days ago, David, with the Head of Goliath.

The time between kills shrinks. He’s accelerating.

The articles don’t mention what the press doesn’t know. The Gallery Killer’s signature mutilation. Each male victim was found with their genitals severed and forced into their stomach. A macabre addition to the artistic arrangements that makes my stomach turn every time I think about it. But it’s the one detail that connects all four murders beyond their artistic staging. The killer’s personal signature. Or a message.

A silver chain slides between my fingers as they drift to the locket at my throat. Inside, my parents smile forever, frozen at an age I’ve now surpassed. Dad would have called this stakeout reckless.

I call it Tuesday.

I tap my pen against my teeth, studying the photos I’d taken at the gallery. The killer had posed art dealer Rivera as both David and Goliath. His head was partially severed but still attached, twisted at an impossible angle so that he gazed upon his own dying body. The victim’s eyes had been propped out, forced to witness his own death eternally. Fascinating.

The police don’t want the public to know there’s a serial killer at large. But I know one when I see one.

The Boston PD’s press releases have carefully avoided connecting the murders. “Isolated incident.” “Targeted attack.” “Robbery gone wrong.” I’ve heard it all before—the same bullshit they fed the public when my parents died. The public relations machine is working overtime to prevent panic.

I flip to my notes on the victims. All wealthy art collectors with questionable methods. All arranged in death to mirror famous paintings.

I stare at the imposing brick facade of the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. The plan unfolds in my head.

Walk in, claim my appointment, secure access to member areas. People rarely question a person who acts like they belong. My tailored blazer and pencil skirt project the perfect blend of professionalism and wealth.

“Hunger is the enemy of justice,” I mutter, slipping a small packet of chocolate-covered espresso beans into my mouth. The caffeine and sugar hit my bloodstream as I approach the entrance, my heels clicking on the sidewalk.

I straighten my shoulders and march toward the entrance, adopting what I hope is a confident stride. The doorway looms before me, promising answers to the Gallery Killer case. Two victims out of four belonged to this exclusive club. This has to be where the killer finds his targets.

Just as I pull the door open, a man appears in the gap, blocking my entrance.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

The man before me stops my breath. Tall, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and eyes so clear they look almost translucent in the glow of the streetlight—a green-gray that shifts as he tilts his head. His suit hugs broad shoulders without a single wrinkle, making mine look like something excavated from a donation bin.

A small silver pin gleams on his lapel. Not the Beacon Hill crest, but something different. A stylized flower with delicate petals. Never seen this symbol before.

His fingers twist silver cufflinks at his wrists in small, precise rotations before he catches himself and stops.

“I, uh—” My voice catches, but I recover quickly, the accent sliding into place. “I’m here for a meeting. Nova—” I catch myself. “Novaris. Oak… en Novaris.”

I’d aimed for James Bond but came out sounding like Kermit the Frog. Smooth, Oakley. Real smooth.

“Oaken. Like the tree?”

“It’s Finnish,” I say, doubling down on this rapidly deteriorating lie. “Very common in Finland. Which is where I’m from. Helsinki. The capital of Finland.”

Why am I still talking? Someone please hit my mute button.

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. There’s something in his eyes—amusement mixed with something harder to read.

“Right.” He smiles, and my stomach does a weird flip. “Look, I admire your commitment, but this is a private club. Members only.”

“I have an invitation,” I insist.

“From whom?”

“From… a member.”

“Which member?”

“The one who… invited me.”

He laughs, and the sound is warm and rich. “You’re persistent. I respect that.” He steps closer, and his cologne makes my brain short-circuit momentarily. “But I can’t let you in. Club rules.”

“But I need to—” I bite my lip, almost forgetting the accent again. Shit. “It’s important.”

“I’m sure it is,” he says, not unkindly. “But so are the club’s privacy policies.” He steps in front of me, effectively blocking the entrance. “Now, is there something specific I could help you with? Perhaps something that doesn’t involve breaking and entering?”

I hang my head in defeat, my eyes up and staring into his green eyes. His gaze travels from my oxfords to my suit jacket, lingering at my waist.

“This is a men’s club,” he says, his voice dropping lower, his eyes never leaving mine. “And you are definitely not a man.” His lips curl into a smile. “And I mean that in the very best way possible.”

Heat crawls up my neck.

He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to step back. “What’s your real name? Because I’m guessing it’s not Oaken from Helsinki.”

“That’s not important.”

“On the contrary,” he says, leaning in slightly. “I find it extremely important.”

His proximity makes it hard to concentrate on anything other than the way his cologne wraps around me. He’s close enough now that I notice a small scar near his eyebrow and the slight asymmetry of his features that somehow makes him more attractive, not less.

“Oakley,” I admit, my voice betraying me by coming out softer than intended. “Oakley Novak.”

“Oakley,” he repeats, testing my name on his tongue. He leans in, his lips nearly brushing my ear. “Do you know what happens to people who try to break into private establishments under false pretenses?”

His whisper sends a shiver down my spine that feels like fingertips trailing across my skin.

“They get arrested?” I suggest, painfully aware of how close he is.

“They get me,” he murmurs. “And I am considerably more thorough than the police.”

He pulls back just enough to look at my face, and there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“I’m the guy they call when something goes wrong with their fancy security system.” He gestures to the building with a self-deprecating shrug. “Not exactly James Bond, more like Q with better hair and worse social skills. I once spent an entire weekend debugging a security protocol instead of attending my cousin’s wedding. Sent the happy couple a surveillance system as a gift. They haven’t called since, oddly enough.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “So you’re a tech geek.”

“I prefer ‘security consultant,’” he says, “though ‘tech geek’ is probably more accurate.” His eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm. “I once reconfigured an entire building’s security grid during a power outage using just a—” He stops, seeming to remember he’s supposed to be intimidating me, not sharing his tech achievements. His hand finds his cufflink again, twisting it once.

He gestures to the building. “In short, I make sure people who aren’t supposed to get in—” he gives me a pointed look “—don’t get in.”

“And how’s that working out for you today, Mr. Security Consultant?”

“Well, I caught you before you made it through the door, so technically my record remains unblemished.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. “Though I will admit, trying to sneak in is a bold choice. Points for creativity, minus several million for execution.”

“I could have got in,” I argue, taking the card. It’s sleek and minimalist, with just a phone number and a small logo.

“I’m sure,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You just need to improve your cover story, your Finnish accent, and your understanding of private club etiquette.”

I shove the card in my pocket. “I’m a work in progress.”

“Aren’t we all?” His eyes never leave mine as he reaches toward me, his hand coming closer to my face. For a wild second, I think he might touch my cheek, and my heart hammers against my ribs.

Instead, his fingers dip into my suit pocket, the one right above my heart. My breath stops as his knuckles brush against my breast through the fabric.

He extracts my emergency stash of sour gummy worms with the casual precision of a pickpocket.

“How did you—”

“Your jacket bulges,” he says, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I notice things like that. Inconsistencies. Patterns.” A flash of embarrassment crosses his face. “That sounded creepier than intended. I don’t just… stare at women’s clothes. Professional habit. Observation.”

He holds up the bag of gummy worms, examining it like evidence. “Mind if I…?”

Before I can answer, he opens the package and pulls out a green and red worm. His eyes lock with mine as his tongue touches the candy first, then drags it slowly across his bottom lip before his teeth close around it.

The way his mouth moves as he chews should be illegal. Or at the very least, regulated by some sort of government agency.

“Sweet and sour,” he says, his voice rougher than before. “Not unlike you, I suspect.”

My mouth turns to sand.

I swallow hard, trying to ignore how this stranger just made eating candy look like something that should require an ID to watch.

“So, Oakley Novak,” he leans against the doorframe, his posture casual while his eyes remain laser-focused. “Since I’ve crushed your undercover operation, perhaps I could make it up to you with dinner?”

The question throws me off balance.

“Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. That meal people typically enjoy in the evening.” His mouth curves into something between a smirk and a smile that’s both teasing and tempting. “I