Serial Killer Meet Cute #3
I round the table, keeping my eyes on him as I pass by to go through the open archway into the living area.
I scrunch my toes into the fluffy rug before sitting on the old 70’s yellow couch.
The rug is the only thing I’ve changed since my gran died and I can’t help thinking what she would say if she saw Flynn sitting on her couch.
Oh my god, she’d totally try to set us up. At least until she realized where she recognized him from.
I scrunch myself into the corner of the couch and squish a cushion between my knees and my chest, resting my mug on it.
Flynn sits across from me, one arm splayed on the armrest as he sips his hot chocolate.
I drag my nail over the embroidered floral patterns on the couch as Flynn’s gaze sweeps over the room. The way he looks is so focused, so intense, like he’s cataloguing even the tiny scratch on the time-warp box TV and the mug stains on the pine wood coffee table.
“Are you done?” I ask, snagging two more marshmallows from the bag I brought with me.
Flynn’s lip twitches. “Your taste is rather… eclectic.”
I throw a marshmallow at him.
The soft pink chunk of floof bounces off his cheek bone and every cell in my body freezes. I can’t believe I just did that. Panic shoots through me, hot cocoa splashing over my hand as I twist around, ready to run, until a strong hand curls around my foot.
He pulls my leg straight, his hand clamping down on my ankle, pinning me to the couch. “No.”
My breath shakes out of me and I stay put.
I don’t exactly have a choice in the matter but then he loosens his grip, the tips of his fingers trailing up my bare leg.
Tiny little fireworks follow his touch and my core squirms in a way I really shouldn’t like.
I clench my thighs together only to wince as my hand brushes against the back of the couch.
Flynn’s scrutinous gaze flicks to my wrist, the skin pink and sore where the hot chocolate splashed. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s fine.”
His brows knit together, so dark on his pale skin. “Wait here.”
I don’t know what compels me to do what he says, maybe I’m still shell-shocked. Or maybe it’s the feel of his fingers imprinted on my ankle, but I don’t try to run. I just watch through the archway as he makes my tea towel wet and wrings it out.
He’s so tall he has to duck when he comes back through the arch. I crane my neck as he stops in front of me but then he crouches down, and his perfectly sculpted face is right there, powder blue eyes dusting over my skin. “Give me your wrist, sweetheart.”
I blink and hold out my arm.
His touch is gentle, the tendons in his fingers playing like strings on a guitar as he wraps the cool towel around my wrist, securing the ends better than most of the paramedics I’ve met.
“Better?”
The cold soothes the burn. “Yes. Thank you.”
Flynn slides his hand down till his fingers are touching mine and the last of the pain disappears as my attention narrows to the pads of his fingers.
My heart kicks, each breath brushing the air.
He turns my hand over. Runs his thumb across my palm. No.
I force myself to imagine those soft hands killing someone and yank my arm back.
Flynn’s shoulders drop, his black curls spilling over his brow. He looks… sad. That bittersweet sadness like when you say goodbye to someone you love.
I clear my throat, my eyes skating over the living space. “It was my grandma’s house,” I tell him, going back to his eclectic comment. “I could never bring myself to throw anything away after she died so most of the furniture is hers.”
I can feel Flynn watching me as he returns to his place on the couch, resting one long arm across the back. “She left the house to you?”
My gaze drops to his fingers. “Yeah. She raised me so this has always been my home.” I was supposed to have moved by now, gone to Canada like I’d always planned so I could live the life my mom wanted for me, but I just can’t bring myself to leave.
After everything that happened with Tommy, my ex, and then losing my gran, the idea of leaving the only place I’ve ever called home was too much to bear.
“The only thing I’ve changed is the bedroom.
” I nod my head to the short hallway off the living area.
“Mine was this tiny box room and Wright came over a couple of months after my gran passed and dragged my stuff into the main bedroom.”
Flynn’s gaze sharpens. “Wright?”
Fuck. Note to self: don’t give the serial killer your best friend’s name.
“Forget I said that. She’s no-one. Just a colleague.”
The tension in Flynn’s body dissipates, like a snake coiling back up into its nest, and my breath leaves me on a sigh.
I relax back into the couch, which in itself is an insane thing to do. I have first-hand experience of toxic, abusive men. I shouldn’t feel the slightest bit relaxed, but some part of my brain must have decided I’m safe because a yawn takes over my system.
“You should sleep.”
I rest my cheek against the back of the couch. “You’re kidding, right?”
His brow furrows, like he doesn’t understand my question. “No.”
“I can’t sleep with a– with you here.”
His face pinches. He doesn’t like that. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You could be lying.”
He dips his chin. “I could.” Flynn runs his tongue over his bottom teeth. “What do you normally do when you can’t sleep?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Watch Friends.”
He nods. “Put it on.”
I lift my head. “You want to watch Friends?”
He smirks. “Not as good as Dexter but it makes the top five.”
I push myself upright. “You’re for real right now?”
“Could I be more real?” The impression is spot on, and I laugh despite myself because there’s a serial killer in my living room quoting Chandler Bing.
Flynn’s got that school-boy smile back as I reach for the remote on the table.
I put on a random episode and I think I must be missing that innate human protective instinct because we’re not even halfway through when my eyes drift closed.
The soft material of my blanket brushes against my legs and I have this vague thought that I shouldn’t be falling asleep, but I can’t for the life of me remember why.