"Why?" I ask, ignoring how damn hot he is. I mean, statistically speaking, there has to be at least one drop-dead gorgeous serial killer out there, right? I guess Mason is it.
That's just my luck. The Universe tried to warn me away from dating, but I just had to tempt fate by flirting with the dangerous man next door. Now, I'm going to pay for it.
He looks caught off guard by my question. "Uh, just wondered how he's been doing."
"Still vicious," I say.
"Oscar?" Sarah laughs loudly. "Oscar is harmless. He just thinks he's scary." She and I seriously need to have the stranger-danger talk again.
"So…I have to finish something up, but Olive can help you find whatever you need," Sarah says, nudging me toward him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Payback is going to be swift and vicious.
I shoot her a death glare, but she's already scurrying away, leaving me to meet my demise on my own.
Mason grins at me. "I'm looking for a specific book. Think you can help me?"
"What book is it?"
"I can't remember the name," he mutters. "But it's about a man who kidnaps a woman and keeps her chained to his bed until she agrees to marry him."
Either he's fucking with me, or he really does have someone chained to his bed. Why is it so hard to tell these things? Evil should really come with a warning label, like trigger warnings.
"Who wrote it?" I ask.
"Will you strangle me if I admit that I don't remember?" he asks, his smile sheepish.
"Well, it definitely wasn't Nicholas Sparks."
"What?"
I nod at the book in his hands.
"Oh." He laughs. "This isn't for me."
"Girlfriend? Wife?"
"Nah, don't have either of those." It might be my imagination, but I swear I hear him mumble, "yet" under his breath.
Suspicious and suspicious-er.
"Okay, well, I have no idea what book you're talking about because it could be five hundred different ones. If you could give me anything to work with, I could maybe help you figure it out, but with no title or author and a vague plot, I've got nothing but questions."
"Shoot."
"What?" I startle.
"You have questions. Shoot."
"Uh…"
The way he smirks does things it shouldn't. "I'll make you a deal," he says. "If you have dinner with me tonight, I'll answer your questions."
I must be losing it because I hesitate. I actually hesitate like I'm considering going to dinner with the maybe-a-serial-killer next door.
You are your own worst enemy, Olive Medlock.
"Sorry, I can't," I mutter. "I have to wash my hair."