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GAGE: I could take you out for a proper breakfast.

My cheeks flare red with shock, and I swear the room spins.

ME: Is that a pity breakfast?

GAGE: No.

Oh. He wants to see me again. Not because I’m bleeding. Not because there’s a dead man between us. Just me. My heart does one violent little gymnastics routine against my ribs, and I stare at the message so long the screen dims.

Then my phone rings. I shriek, and it launches straight out of my hand, bounces off my knee, and hits the floor. I dive after it, catch my hip on the nightstand, nearly take out the lamp, and finally snatch it up. “Hello?”

A pause. “Did you throw your phone?”

“No.”

“I heard multiple impacts.”

“Gravity became aggressive.”

His laugh rolls through the speaker, low and warm, and I hate what it does to my stomach. “Good afternoon, Jules.” I don’t tell him how much I like the nickname. Not yet.

“I work nights.”

“That’s adorable.”

“How is employment adorable?”

“Everything you’re doing today is adorable. I’m choosing violence.”

I kick a shoe out of my path. “After last night, do you think that’s wise?”

“After last night, I think you only choose violence when someone gives you a damn good reason. I’m planning to stay on your good side.”

“Assuming I have one.” It slips out. I avoid the small mirror on my wall.

“You have many good sides.” His voice turns low and gravelly, which does no favors to my lady parts. “And I plan to see them all eventually.” Then it softens. “I wasn’t joking about breakfast.”

“At one in the afternoon?”

“Breakfast is a state of mind.”

“Says the pastry chef.”

“Exactly. I’m professionally qualified.”

I stop in the center of the room, my pulse climbing into my throat. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

No joke. No sidestep.

“You pick the place,” he continues, giving me no time to manufacture a reason to panic. “Public. Crowded. Somewhere you know. You don’t give me your address, and I don’t follow you there.”

I glance toward the living room. Toward my mother, and the walls I’ve spent years orbiting like they hold me with gravity instead of guilt. “Why do I get to choose?”

“Because last night you had enough choices taken away from you.”

Any tension deflates, like my heart remembers it’s allowed to grow. So naturally, I deflect. “You’re awfully clingy for a guy I met over a dead body.”