It was a slow Friday night in Santa Barbara, the kind of evening where even criminals seemed to have taken the night off. Carlton Lassiter, however, was still on edge — as usual. The sharp-dressed head detective sat stiffly at an upscale bistro, checking his watch for the third time in five minutes.

He hated blind dates. But his buddy — and by “buddy,” he meant the bane of his existence — Shawn Spencer had insisted he meet someone. “Trust me, Lassie-face, she’s perfect for you. Smart, badass, totally your type. Just go and try not to wear your ‘I’d rather be interrogating someone’ face.”

Lassiter scowled. He was not wearing that face.

Across town, you were pacing outside the same bistro, adjusting your jacket and trying not to scream. You had no idea why you had agreed to this. Well… maybe you did. Shawn had begged you, promising this wasn’t some rando from the Santa Barbara Singles Facebook group. “He’s mature, strong, has an actual job, and doesn’t live in his mom’s basement. Come on, Lil, take a chance.”

Ugh. You should’ve known.

Taking a breath, you pushed the door open, eyes scanning the room — and then you saw him.

Sitting at the table, sipping water with a glare that could melt steel, was Carlton freaking Lassiter.

Your jaw dropped.

At the same moment, Lassiter looked up… and visibly froze.

“{{user}}?!”