Page 36 of How I Met Your Murderer

I ate it up. His newfound boldness and the strawberry itself, which I caught between my teeth as he held it, before he could change his mind. His chilled fingertips brushed the corner of my mouth, and it was all I could do to not go back for seconds.

His lips parted more noticeably than before.

“It’s ripe,” I rasped. I had to hope my voice wasn’t giving away my predicament. “Juicy. Warm from the room, like the platter’s been out a while. The little seeds crack a bit when I bite down. And the inside is . . . especially soft. Like it gives up easy. Like it wants me to suck down every last bit of sweetness.”

Eric’s answering sound was so quiet that I felt it more than heard it, a low hum that vibrated in the air between us like a plucked guitar string. His outline sharpened, his colors deepening, like he was pulling himself into the world by sheer force of want.

Or need. I couldn’t remember the difference right now.

“Another,” he whispered, the crack in his voice telling me that if he still had blood moving through his body, there would have been something stirring in those jeans of his, too.

He chose blueberries next.

Then grapes. By now, there was a whole performance going on under the table on my side, and I was lucky the staff were too busy with the various courses to notice.

There was a pepperoni plucked from around the dragon’s eye that made him groan openly at the memory of heat and smoky flavor.

More cheese cubes. And then he pointed to a small red pepper, one of many that decorated the dragon’s spiky tail. “Try that one?” he suggested breathlessly, watching me from beneath his lashes with a look that had even more blood rushing to my bits.

I guess that’s why I didn’t think. I just chomped down.

Flames exploded across my tongue like I’d been scorched by the dragon itself.

“Sweet suffering Jaysus—!” I spluttered like I’d turned into my gran, desperately grabbing for a napkin. “Eric, for feck’s sake!”

Delight and horror mingled on his lovely face before worry won out over them all. “Oh no! Raff, I’m so sorry. Was it hot? I forgot those can sometimes be—”

“Weapons,” I gasped, fanning my mouth. “Actual weapons, those are. Nuclear grade. This time, I’ll take the apology and then some.”

That’s when I remembered I could eat another cheese cube to try to douse some of those flames. I popped a few in my mouth at once as Eric laughed, bright and helpless, and the kitchen lights flickered again—harder this time, like his mood could move the whole castle.

I leaned toward him to grab another cube of cheese just as he leaned in, his knee brushing mine. His gaze had dropped to my mouth, which had to be red from the pepper. The air between us that had been vibrating with warmth and laughter was changing, solidifying, pulling taut—ready to snap into something reckless.

I reached out to run my fingers through his hair again, even though it was like dipping my hand in a bowl of ice. My fingers traced the curve of his cheek, and they couldn’t tell he wasn’t real. I didn’t know where the lines were anymore, if I ever had. Certainly not in any handbook.

“Eric,” I murmured before I even knew what I was going to say next. Or maybe just because I liked the sound of his name.

Behind me, the kitchen door banged open.

“Rafferty O’Meara!” Caoimhe swept over in a gust of perfume and rustling silk, the shimmering scales of her dress no less elegant and intimidating under the kitchen’s new fluorescent lights.

Pepper’s toenails clicked against the tiled floor as he trotted behind her, his little bowtie askew but his skull bandana still in place. He started trying to lick the scalding pepper juice off my fingers—or, more likely, the cheese and pepperoni beneath—but Caoimhe interrupted by pressing something into my hands like she was presenting me with a trophy.

It was a bottle of whiskey, the smooth green glass heavy and full. Jameson, of course. But not just any Jamo—it was a bottle of Bow Street 18 Years. The best they made.

“Well done, you,” she said, squeezing my hands a little before letting go of both me and the bottle. Her shiny emerald manicure had stabbed me in the back of the hand so hard it felt like a puncture wound, but at least I was no longer so flustered that I couldn’t stand up if Chef Máirtín chose to appear. “The guests are raving. They’re just the right amount of excited about the shadows on the walls—Jordy’s amazing at shadow puppets—and at least twenty people have already been to the bathroom without running out screaming about anything in the mirror. I think—” She paused, her blue eyes bright and glistening like she was overcome. “I think this is the first time I can actually see what this place will be: a complete success, thanks in no small part to you. I might even be able to turn the dungeon into a gift shop after all!”

“Raff’s the best there is. You made the right call, hiring him,” Eric agreed softly. His eyes were only for me, his gaze still ablaze with a remnant of the earlier heat we had shared. “Dunno about turning the dungeon into anything, though.”

Caoimhe arched her professionally shaped delicate brows, eyes flicking between me and Eric—who was still looking perfectly corporeal. Perfectly handsome.

“And who’s this?” she asked, finally settling her attention on him. “I don’t remember telling you to bring a date, Raff, but—fair play to you. And he’s not half bad-looking, either. You could’ve at least offered him a seat in the dining hall with everyone else. Let him have the full experience he came for.”

Eric went very still, then flushed very pink, like he couldn’t get away from her scrutiny fast enough.

“He’s just—look, we work really well together. And we have a few things in common, sure, but we’re from completely different worlds. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but you can trust me when I say that it’s—it’s not like that,” I stammered, drawing Caoimhe’s cool blue stare back to me.

“Mmhmm,” she said, unconvinced and smiling sweetly. No mask of professionalism this time—just a woman passing along a good bottle of whiskey to a friend and his not-date. “Well, enjoy your little . . . whatever this is.” She actually winked. “Just don’t drink the whole bottle. I don’t want to be scraping you off the floor at midnight, or whenever the spirits decide they’ve had enough of our guests.”