We walked to the coffee shop in relative silence, and I kept my hands on my backpack’s straps, ready to run the whole time.

I didn’t really want to always think the worst of people…but reading people’s words sometimes made it hard. I’d learned long ago to hide my surprise and keep my gaze level on other people’s eyes—in the exact opposite way of high-school boys who apparently couldn’t help looking at breasts—but that didn’t mean it was easy for me.

Especially when someone’s word was so distracting.

KILLER.

In a solidly ominous red font, totally at odds with the occasional friendly looks he was giving me.

What the hell?

And then the bright light of Mr. Z’s sign was there and grew nearer.

I’d…survived.

Because I could walk home from here, and I didn’t think he’d do anything in front of the shop—there were still plenty of people inside, studying and talking. I could see all their words through the window like a smattering of road signs: someone’s cheerfully yellow ENTHUSIASTIC! And someone else’s bleak gray DEPRESSED. A guy with a harsh red ALWAYS RIGHT over his head was living up to his name, clearly starting a fight with the guy across from him, whose word was blurry—like he hadn’t figured out who he was yet.

Not like me, and not like KILLER, aka Byron.

Byron strode up to the curb, stepped up, and opened the cafe door. “After you,” he said, entirely non-murderously.

I went straight up to order and pay for my own drink, a decaf Americano because it was late, then I guarded it closely, until I’d doctored it up and found us a table. I wasn’t letting him touch it, and I didn’t want anyone else to give me shit for my Splenda habit.

Byron caught up and sat down across from me. It looked like his coffee was straight black, and it was hard not to imagine the mug as a throat as his hands wrapped it—but he was still giving me an easy-going smile. “So, are you sure you’re okay?”

I wanted to say, why would you care? You’re a killer! but I couldn’t let anything on. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He stared at me. “Because I tackled you pretty hard,” he admitted, then winced. “You may not be feeling it now, because of adrenaline, but you might have some bruises in the morning.”

I shifted in my chair. He wasn’t wrong. My hip was kind of sore, and road rash had badly scuffed the elbow of my favorite jacket.

“Honestly, that’s why I asked you here,” he continued. “So I could buy you a coffee to make up for it—but then you were kind of anxious about the whole thing, with the car, so I let you buy your own coffee, but it turns out that doesn’t really help my ‘I just tackled a petite college-aged girl’ guilt.”

I tensed. “How did you know I was in college?”

His gaze flickered down to the ground, where I’d tossed my backpack, which was clearly labeled with my school’s crest. “Your backpack?”

“Oh.” I pursed my lips, and then blinked. “So…you invited me out because you felt bad?” I sounded each word out, unable to believe that I was saying them.

“Yeah. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said warmly, then his tone shifted into a sly tease. “I mean, I still get to take credit for saving your life and all. But I wouldn’t want you to think I make a habit of tackling pretty women out of nowhere.”

I looked from his KILLER to him, repeatedly. Something about the line of his jaw said he lived his life in a reserved fashion—but I could see the amusement lurking at the corners of his lips and eyes.

Other than his word, nothing about him screamed murderer.

And also he thought I was pretty.

I groaned at myself in my soul. This is how EVERYONE DIES, Elle! “So…you’re saying you only tackle pretty women with good reasons?” I said, sounding a little lighter than I felt.

He laughed. “Oh shit, that sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

“It really does,” I said, looking into my coffee for answers. It wasn’t that I wanted to be right about him being a KILLER—but I didn’t want to distrust my power, either, and rarely had the word over someone’s head been so straightforward. “Thanks for wanting to get me coffee though.”

“You’re welcome, although usually I prefer being an actions-over-words kind of guy.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “It was nice to meet you, Elle—”

“Wait,” I said, pushing my chair back too. “You’re leaving?”

“After I put this in a to-go cup,” he said, hoisting his mug at me. “I’ve got to go back and get my car. Oh—no—did you need a ride?” he asked, and winced.

“Do you have to go?” If I let him out of my sight, would I be endangering some other girl?

Or was I worried he was going to go and think someone else was pretty?

“Uh, no,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Then, stay? Maybe?”

He slowly sank back into his chair, giving me a look of fresh appreciation that made the parts of me that couldn’t read run hot. “So, do you live around here?” he asked, either making innocent conversation or starting his stalker vision board.

“Nearby,” I demurred.

“Oh yeah, me too, totally. That’s my favorite street.”

I tried and failed not to laugh. “Why were you at the bar tonight?” I asked him. Casing out victims, or….

“Just meeting a friend. Do you work there often?”

“I used to, but now I just pick up shifts for friends.” I shrugged casually, making sure to not get cornered by traceable facts—but I did want to keep him here. “My main job is on campus.”

“Yeah?” he asked, attentively interested.

“Yeah. You’re looking at the number one campus matchmaker extraordinaire.” I spun my finger around mid-air, then landed with it pointed at me.

His eyebrows about hit the bottom of his shaggy bangs. “Matchmaking? Really?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m super good at it—so good, people pay me.”

“Cash only industry, eh?” he teased.

“Hundreds of happy customers,” I said, then grinned. “Well, maybe more like a hundred, but still.”

Byron made a thoughtful sound. “How does that even work?” His eyes were studying me intently—like he could find his answer written somewhere in my eyes.

“Why? You think you need professional help?”

“I’m single, so, definitely.”

And what kind of guy brought that up if they weren’t hoping?

A murderer! my common sense reminded me, while the rest of me tried to shut it down.

He took his eyes off me for a moment, to pull his phone out of his pocket and clock the screen. “Damn, I’ve got to get to work, but—tomorrow? Maybe you could explain your strange profession to me over dinner?”

Could I?

“Yeah.” I was smart, I would make sure I was in control, and I would stay calculated—until I figured what was up with his KILLER. “I can meet you here at seven.”

Byron looked around and nodded. “Good safe public space,” he said casually, not minding my abundance of caution. He stood, pushed in his chair, and paused to look down at me. “How did you even become a matchmaker?”

I gave him a tentative smile. “I’ve just always been good at reading people, is all.”