My palms are clammy as I finish up his coffee and walk it to the pickup counter. “St. Clare?” I call, and it’s only once the words are out of my mouth that I realize I didn’t ask him for his name.

Fuck. Like, I’m sure he didn’t recognize me—thank you, skeleton mask—but do I want to give him any more fucking clues so he can put it together?

I really can’t be blamed for being so unsettled though. I’ve got the caffeine jitters, I’m on a high from making so many people happy this morning, and then his shockingly proportionate face shows up out of the blue, barely a foot away, when that shockingly proportionate face is supposed to be staying hidden.

I keep my gaze pinned to the coffee, knowing it’ll be easier to just shove it at him and run away.

He gets to the counter, and my pulse is out of fucking control. “Thanks.”

“No good—all good.” Shit, I’m fucking sweating. “Have a dood gay.”

The mortification of those words makes me look up on instinct, wanting to know if he caught the fumble, and judging by the huge smirk on his face, he definitely, definitely did.

His blue eyes are waiting for mine to catch them, and the heat rushing my neck is filling me with the urge to say more that’s so overwhelmingly powerful it’s a struggle to keep shutting up.

“A dood gay?” He leans his hip against the counter. “What would that be, exactly?”

“It was supposed to be good.”

“A good gay?” His grin stretches wider, and my embarrassment claws deeper. “How did you know that’s my type?”

By this point, my head is threatening to go supernova, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying and … wait. Is he … wait.

St. Clare blatantly checks me out.

He’s fucking hitting on me.

He’s hitting on the guy who almost killed him.

The urge to laugh rolls over me, and the only thing that stops it in its place is the worry I’ll come across as wildly homophobic. Which I’m not. Guys have hit on me before. It’s fine. It’s cool. Gives me a little zip of confidence even.

And, like now, even sometimes manages to scrub the ever-present words from my brain.

“Uhhhhmm …”

He reaches over and drags a long finger along my plastic charm bracelet. “This is cute.”

“Th-thanks. It’s my happy charm.”

“Happy charm?”

I try to gather up my confidence that’s currently shredded on the floor. “When I’m down or whatever, all it takes is one look at it to make myself feel better.”

He eyes me curiously. “I like the idea of a happy charm. Maybe I should get one.”

“You should.”