Page 10 of Empire State Enemies

I know his type—the kind of dangerous temptation all moms warn their daughters about, while secretly fantasizing themselves. Except my mom, who’d probably be waving her hands in the air and shouting “Hey, mister!” until she got his attention like a crazy lady.

But now’s not really the time for eye-banging.

“Hey there, sweetheart.”

I swivel and recoil. Fucking hell, it’s that decrepit olive-sucking letch from before, now hovering uncomfortably close, bleary eyes fixed squarely chest-level.

“Can I help you?” I ask coldly, angling away and attempting telepathic extermination.

“You look familiar. Have we met?” His hand lands on my arm.

I jerk back. “You probably knew my great-great-grandma before she died. People say we looked alike.”

That one lands a solid punch to his ego.

But he shakes it off quick, undeterred. He’s like Herbert the fucking Pervert fromFamily Guy, if Herbert was reconsidering his life choices.

“A beautiful woman like yourself shouldn’t be sitting here alone. How about some company?”

I muster all the revulsion I can into a glance. It’s almost impressive, his confidence. But come on, money or not, the age gap here isn’t just a gap, it’s the Grand Canyon. “Thanks, but my boyfriend’s about to show up. He’s probably just wrapping up strangling someone in his MMA class.”

Grandpa Olive Sucker plops down anyway, unfazed. “Let’s have one drink while you wait.”

He snaps his fingers at the bartender. “Another cocktail for the lady here.”

I clench my jaw. “I said no thanks.”

Unbelievable.

He doesn’t catch the hint, eyeing me up and down, practically drooling. “So what does a pretty little thing like you do? You a model? Actress?”

My hands tighten around my drink, imagining pouring it over his polished head. “Actually, I run bingo nights. You should drop by, it’s a blast at the senior center on Tuesdays.”

That’s the kicker that finally wipes the smug leer off his face. “You little—”

But I’m not listening. My eyes bulge at the flashing message from Deano:

He’s here. White shirt. Jeans.

Below it, a picture of Connor Quinn. I nearly choke. This has to be a cruel prank.

“Beat it,” I growl at Gramps. I feel sick.

CONNOR QUINN???My fat fingers can’t type fast enough.THIS A JOKE??

No way is this real. I’d rather watchThe Texas Chainsaw Massacreon repeat—and that says a lot considering I’ve refused Grace for over a year.

Please don’t let this endChainsawstyle.

I sneak a look across the bar. There’s Deano, looking sharp and oblivious, as if he’s just a regular Joe waiting for a date. If only the reality weren’t so painfully ridiculous.

I shoot him a furiousWhat the hell?look.

My phone lights up:Stop fucking around. It’s him.

A maniac laugh followed by a throaty gurgle burst out of me, making Gramps slide away fast.

Well done, Deano, you’ve just clinched the title for America’s Dumbest and Most Dangerously Delusional.