“A friend?” I repeat, this time aloud, my voice quiet. Oakley adjusts her clothing, tugging her shirt down. “Well, I couldn’t say ‘my serial killer stalker friend,’ could I?” She looks up at me through those impossible lashes, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I’m anything but a friend.” Her smile widens as she watches my expression darken. “You’re cute when you’re angry.” “I’m not cute,” I growl, crossing the distance between us in two strides. “Serial killers aren’t cute. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute.”
