Designed for Murder (Killer Style 4)

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She inhaled a sniffly breath and straightened her shoulders. “You didn’t kill her.”

“Mika, you don’t have to pretend—”

“The only place I pretend is when I’m dressed up as the Silver Queen.” She pushed out of his embrace and let the blanket fall as she stood up. “I hate lies and fake fronts and people who pretend to be what they aren’t. And yet here I am lying to the people closest to me about you.”

He couldn’t afford to get attached. How she felt shouldn’t matter to him. This was about the case. That’s what they both needed to remember. “You’re doing it for the right reasons.”

She grabbed her clothes off the floor. “But that doesn’t make it any less wrong.” She sighed and pulled the oversize T-shirt over her head, then reached for her jeans. “Come on, we need to go get something to eat and figure out how to catch this asshole before he pulls his next move and hurts someone else.”

Tourists and Harbor City locals crowded Pippy’s Pancakes looking for a cheap, carb-heavy meal. Chatter filled the restaurant along with the smell of maple syrup and fresh coffee. The service was fast, and they expected you to inhale your food and get out the door to free up the table for the next person in line. The waitresses were crabby, there were timers on the table to motivate people to keep it moving, and the food was divine. It was Mika’s favorite place to eat.

There wouldn’t be any lingering over coffee or deep chats at Pippy’s. Not that she thought Carlos was that guy, but after everything she’d just told him about Hana, she needed a breather from her own emotions.

The waitress hustled over as soon as they sat down, order pad at the ready.

A quick glance at the menu and Mika knew. “I’ll go with the blueberry pancakes, eggs over easy, and a hot chocolate.”

Carlos sat across from her, the six-page menu with its description of more than four hundred kinds of pancakes in hand and a blank look on his face. She’d seen it before. The menu was all kinds of crazy with everything from Hawaiian pancakes to plain pancakes to Sarachi pancakes dusted with cayenne pepper.

“How about you?” the waitress asked, annoyance bleeding through her question.

“I’m gonna need a minute,” he said.

Mika sat up. That was the kiss of death at Pippy’s. You couldn’t mess with the flow. They’d probably spit in their syrup now. “Everything’s good; which one calls out to you?”

“There are a billion choices,” he mumbled.

“Four hundred and eighty-two, and not a stack of plain pancakes anywhere to be found,” the waitress said before popping her gum. “So what’ll it be?”

Carlos flipped the menu pages, eyeballing it like he could memorize it, analyze it, and then determine the best course of action.

“It’s just breakfast.” Mika giggled. “Go with your gut.”

He shot her a teasing glare. “Squealing pig bacon pancakes with scrambled eggs and orange juice.” He slapped the menu shut and held it out to the waitress, who took it and hustled off to the kitchen. “If those suck I’m going to blame you.”

“Nothing sucks here. It’s Pippy’s Pancakes.”

He looked around at the packed restaurant. “It’s a tourist trap.”

“Exactly, the people-watching is amazing.” Of course, the only person she was watching was him.

His brown hair had gotten away from him this morning, and waves curled around the top of his ears, giving him a messy, just-got-out-of-bed-after-being-fucked-well hotness that couldn’t be manufactured. Damn, the man was panty melting. She slipped off a shoe and slid her foot up the inside of his muscular thigh.

“The waitresses are rude.” He captured her foot with his hand before she could hit her target. But instead of pushing her away, he rubbed his thumb into her arch, stroking and caressing in a way that made it hard not to moan out loud.

“It’s part of Pippy’s charm.”

If covert, under-the-table foot rubs was how Mr. By the Book did breakfast, she was going to have to talk him into making this a regular thing after they’d wrapped up the case.

His talented fingers moved to the ball of her foot, rubbing in circular motions. “Who needs five hundred pancake choices?”

“I do.” She sighed. She couldn’t help herself. He really was good with his hands.

“Why?” He released her foot and laid it against his thigh.

“Because it’s fun.” She extended her leg until her toes moved up to brush against his dick, which twitched under her touch. “I like to come in here and play pancake roulette. Sometimes I love it, sometimes I don’t, but I always try something new.”