Page 32 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Bone like…?”

“Yes,” he says almost defensively. “It’s really common in gardening.”

My lips twitch as I consider offering to source some for him, but he keeps talking, oblivious.

“Anyway, my friend’s a scientist, and she made a⁠—”

“She?”

“Yes?” His brow creases at my sharp tone.

Annoyed that I felt… something… I make a carry-on gesture that’s a little more curt than I meant it to be.

“My friend’s compound interacts with the, uh, type of bone meal I favor to change the soil chemistry in a way that extends the blooming season. And voilà.” He gestures in front of us with his clippers. “Thanks to her, I’m the only one on the block with roses well into fall.”

“How nice for you,” I say crisply before making a show of checking my phone. “I need to start getting ready. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, you know?”

He watches me not make a move toward the front door.

“No. You wouldn’t want that.” His voice is friendly as ever.

“Well, he’s a busy guy. I try to be considerate of his time.” Why am I still standing here? Why am I still talking about this?

There’s a metallic ping, and Hugo frowns down at the spring now dangling from one side of the clippers still gripped in his fist.

“Rue—”

“Okay, so thanks for sharing your secrets with me,” I say brightly. “I should’ve known you’d be an open book if I just asked.”

A laugh cracks out of him. “That’s me.” He drops the broken clippers at his feet. “An open book.”

“Um. I should…” I point toward my front door, then spin and walk toward it. Not flustered, just running late.

His voice reaches me when I’m a mere three steps from safety.

“Enjoy your date, Rue.”

I don’t correct him as I shut the door.

“Howdy, neighbor girl.”

Pell smirks up at me from where he’s sprawled across the worn vinyl of his favorite booth in his favorite diner in his favorite part of the city, a fork in one hand and an ancient baseball in the other.

“Your driveway cameras have audio now?” I ask as I slide onto the bench opposite the best fixer in the business.

“Correct. Makes things more entertaining.” The words emerge like molasses as Pell—white, early thirties, first name unknown to me—twirls the baseball in his palm before sliding it into his pocket. After adjusting the backward ball cap over his black hair, he jabs his fork into one of the three untouched slices of pie in front of him.

“So now you’re keeping tabs on Hugo, too?”

“Yep. And I ain’t gonna stop, no matter how much you beg, darlin’.”

Well, aren’t we full of wackadoo Southern Gothic charm today? Pell’s accent is the rustle of kudzu vines on a rusted-out pickup truck in a front yard, and it goes hand-in-hand with his pretty eyes and loose-limbed grace.

“That act doesn’t work on me, darlin’,” I remind the scariest motherfucker in the room as he inhales a forkful of cherries and crust. “I’m well aware of the evil that lurks under… all of that.”

I gesture toward his black cargo pants, black hoodie, and deep-cut black tank top. He glances down as if he’s surprised by his exposed sternum, then straightens the battered, braided leather cuff around his wrist and gifts me with one of his slow smiles.

“Don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful.”