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From a distance, Cinnamon was sexy, a woman I wanted to sink inside of.

But this close? There’s more to it than that.

My memory fuzzes into a dull gray mess and is replaced by the searing image of her brilliantly kaleidoscope eyes blinking up at me.

It isn’t my breath that she steals, but my existence.

“So sorry! He said not to drop my crock pot, and it fell down. Just wanted to make sure it was okay.”

My mouth opens and closes a few times, and I know I must be reminiscent of a goldfish gasping for breath.

For a semblance of normal.

But my bowl is cracked. The water is gone. And I might quite literally be dying.

Am I having a stroke?

“Here, let me get my insurance card. I pulled out without my blinker. I am such a bad luck charm,” she carries on, clueless to the existential life crisis she has thrown me into.

I gulp down a few lungfuls of air before clearing my throat. All the blood in my head rushes to my cock as I zero in on the dimples forming on her cheeks.

There is absolutely no brain power to stop the words that fall between us. “What about a date instead?”

“No, I should really pay you, I—” She’s rambling as she opens the glove box, and dozens of papers fall out of it.

Wait—the crock pot.

My attention flashes to the box that the papers are falling onto. My anxiety climbs.

The bomb.

I offer a placating wave. “No, I insist. I own a few restaurants, we could have dinner at one. My name is Reuben.” I can’t take my name back, and it is horror that fills me as my mouth keeps making words it shouldn’t.

“I—” She stops shuffling through the paperwork, her eyes narrowing on a document.

My attention zeroes in on it, reading it with her.

Her insurance is expired. Is this even her car? What was her plan here?

“You’re not a serial killer, right?” she snaps, watching me.

I choke out a laugh at the irony. “No.” I don’t mention the hypocrisy.

She exhales heavily, looking at the clock on her dashboard. “I’m running late.” She grabs her phone. “What’s your number, Reuben?”

I read it out, and then she calls it.

“I agree, but only if I can cook us dinner.” She narrows her eyes, and I can see the defiance in their depths.

An image flashes of my cock stuffed into her mouth.

But then her words land, and my face pales at the memory of how the last man died.

Stepping back away from her door, I force my brain to cooperate.

I don’t have any allergies, and she never picked up the poison.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon, Cinnamon.”