Mourning Wood

by Heather M. Orgeron

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure people are just lined up to take over a half-cocked job at some broke church.”

  Beau slings his briefcase up onto the table and opens it, completely disregarding my tirade. “This lays everything out in black and white.” He slaps a stack of legal papers in front of me, open to the last page. “Basically, they’d need you to self-finance, allowing them to make monthly payments on the labor portion for two years. In exchange you could brand every pew with a metal plate with your information. Leave your business cards at the front desk. Stuff like that.”

  I take the paper, glancing over the terms. I don’t bother with reading the whole thing. If Beau drew them up, I know they’re legit.

  “Look, this place gets tons of traffic,” he urges. “It’ll be a great jump start for your business here.”

  I nod, tapping the pen rapidly. It’s not like I’m hurting for money. I still have a good chunk sitting in the bank. If it’ll get my name out, and help a friend of Kate… “You know these people, right?” I quirk a brow. “Cuz I’m not looking to get chained to a bunch of whack jobs.”

  “Extremely well,” he assures me. “Great people.”

  I take in the light bead of sweat on his forehead and slight shake in his voice. “Then why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  He shrugs, popping the top on his beer and taking a long swig. “No clue. You know I’d never suggest anything that wasn’t in your best interest.”

  I’m positive he’s up to something, but I also know that if anyone on earth would be looking out for me and mine, it’s this man right here. So, despite the niggling worry in the back of my mind, I throw caution to the wind, and sign on the dotted line.

  It’s not yet six in the morning when I roll to a stop at the address Beau scribbled down on a fast-food napkin for me before leaving in an Uber late last night. His drunken scrawl ain’t easy to read.

  I place a booted foot on the ground, shielding my eyes from the sun to make out the sign posted in front of the Victorian style mansion. Daigle Family Funeral Services. Don’t be caught dead any place else.

  I look back down at the napkin, comparing the address again 2222 Main Street. This is what the motherfucker was hiding. It’s a goddamn funeral home.

  Fuming, I wrench my phone from my back pocket. “You’re an asshole,” I growl before he has a chance to greet me.

  His answering groan is one part dread, two parts laughter. “Mornin’.”

  “Are you serious with this shit?” I slam the truck door harder than necessary. “This is a joke, right?”

  “’Fraid no—”

  After a series of garbled noises, the voice on the other end of the line changes to one a little more cheery and decidedly feminine. “Hey, Wyatt!” Kate pipes.

  “I can’t—” I start, my breathing escalating at the mere thought of spending my days surrounded by a bunch of dead people.

  “You can,” she counters. “Please? Please, please, please…” she drags that last one out for effect. “The Daigles are like family, and they really need the help. Plus, it’ll be good for you too. Please say you’ll do it… for me?”

  I don’t answer right away, too focused on the pit of dread unfurling throughout my chest. I don’t think I can respond without losing my breakfast right here on the sidewalk.

  “Anyway, you owe me for getting my husband piss drunk,” she continues. “I had to wake up with your niece four times last night all on my own.”

  The bitter taste of bile fills my mouth. “I don’t think you understand—”

  “You listen to me, Wyatt Landry. You’re being hired to put up walls and build fucking pews, not embalm bodies. You don’t even have to see any dead people…unless you want to,” she adds.

  “I don’t.”

  “Great. Then you won’t. Don’t be a pussy.”

  “Gotta go,” I mumble when a vision in heels and a form-fitting black skirt walks out the front door. My cousin-in-law’s still gabbing when I drop the phone unceremoniously through the passenger window onto the front seat.

  “Mr. Landry?” the blonde Barbie calls, making her way down the cobblestone path, her hips swaying side to side with a confidence few women possess. It’s incredibly sexy. As she approaches, her features become clear—ice blue eyes, pillowy lips, dimples for days… She extends a manicured hand in my direction. “I’m Whit—”

  “Whitney,” I rasp, before clearing the sudden frog from my throat. I can feel my own eyes practically bugging out of my head.

  Talk about a blast from the past.

  “Wyatt?” I swear I see flames shoot out of her eyes and smoke billowing from her ears. I’m scrambling to clear my head and think straight, because I can’t recall having done anything deserving of such ire. “There’s been a mistake,” she blurts out, yanking her hand from mine. I swear I hear her mumble something about murder and new best friend beneath her breath. “I’m sorry. I was actually just coming out to tell you that the job has already been filled.” With that she spins on her toes, fully intending to take off with a hasty retreat.

  Before I think better of it, I reach for her wrist. “I don’t think so.”

  What am I doing? Isn’t this what I wanted…a chance to get out of this shady-ass deal?

  “Excuse me?”

  I retrieve the folded paperwork from my back pocket and hold out the fully executed document for her examination. It’s already been signed by a Mr. Hank Daigle. Now, I don’t know if he’s her husband or father, but a quick glance at her left hand shows no ring, so I’m feeling pretty damn hopeful—and suddenly desperate for this job. My ego won’t stand for being so easily dismissed—self-preservation be damned. “I’ve been contracted to restore the chapel. I’m sorry if that’s awkward for you, but I’m a man of his word and have every intention to make good on my promise.” I glance back down at the paper. “To…Hank.”

  “Awkward for me?” she asks, incredulous, closing the distance between us. “What about you? Pretty sure you were there too.”

  I don’t even attempt to fight the crooked smile tugging at my lips. “And where might you be referring?”

  Her blue eyes dart around the street. Dear God, she’s beautiful when she’s angry. I’ve only ever seen the woman tipsy and horny. And, well…embarrassed. She wouldn’t even spare me a glance the day of the wedding, a brush-off that still stings, to this day. “You know where,” she mutters.

  “The dumpster?” I decide to just throw it out there—the elephant. I’ve never been one for beating around the bush.

  “Shh,” she hisses, balling her fists at her sides. I swear if she purses those little lips any tighter, she’s gonna have smoker lines she’ll never be able to get rid of. I almost tell her as much but decide I shouldn’t poke the bear…not yet, anyway.

  “Listen,” I say, backtracking to try to smooth things over. “I had no idea that it was your family who owned this place, but I’ve already agreed to the job. For whatever reason, Beau and Kate went through a whole lotta trouble to make this happen. I’m sure their motivation wasn’t entirely innocent, but from what I can see, you’re not exactly drowning in options. I’m certain we can both be adult enough to put one night of hot se—”

  “Stop!” she snaps, her slender index finger landing at my lips. “That’s enough.” Frazzled, she smooths down the front of her skirt and takes a step back. “I guess you can keep the job…just—” Her perky tits rise and fall with a deep breath, and I try not to stare. “Just don’t bring up that…situation…ever again. Mmmkay?”

  I shift myself, trying to hide the growing situation in my pants. “I’ll do my best.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that my…situation…sometimes has a mind of its own.” I shrug and try to look innocent.

  Even she isn’t able to resist a quick grin at my clever retort.

  “Whatever,” she sighs, sticking out her hand for a shake. “Try and behave yourself, yeah?”
/>
  An unexpected thrill jolts through me at the brief contact of her silky-smooth hand in mine. “Like I said,” I rasp, already losing the battle, “I’ll do my best.”

  I give myself a final once-over, touching up my pale pink lipstick and passing a brush through my long strawberry blonde locks before heading back downstairs. With an appointment in ten minutes I still need to prepare for, I have little choice but to come out of hiding.

  I can do this. I can totally put my humiliation aside and work with this man, if it means saving my parents’ business. And my own job. I really don’t have a choice, seeing how I’m the one who put them in this predicament to begin with.

  So what if he’s hotter than sin?

  Who cares that his syrupy drawl sends all of the blood in my body rushing to my lady bits?

  I live right upstairs. I can sneak away for panty changes throughout the day as needed. Hell, I’ll just stuff an extra pair into my front pocket right now to be safe.

  Yup, I think to myself, running my hand along the oak banister as I navigate the ornate staircase down to the business floor. Whitney, girl—you’ve got this—

  “Hey, Whit!” Sin wrapped in a cotton tee and light wash denim greets me with a grin that sends me tripping over my own feet, right into his arms—his massive, masculine arms.

  I so don’t got this! My grip tightens around his bicep. Solid—not overly muscled. He isn’t one of those gymheads, but an honest to goodness, hard-working virile male.

  I take a deep inhale before removing myself from his hold. He smells of wood and leather, and my pheromones like it—a lot.

  “I’m fine,” I insist, righting myself. Jesus, did it just get hot in here?

  He takes a step back, palms out. “Just trying to help.”

  “And I appreciate it,” I snap tartly, fully aware that I’m sounding like a complete shrew but seemingly unable to help my reaction to this man—inward or outward.

  “You look beautiful,” he offers as he observes me fiddling with my clothes and hair in the framed mirror behind him.

  “Don’t.” I even out my breathing to the best of my ability and fan my face to alleviate some of the flush from my cheeks.

  “What have I done to offend you now?” he asks, still doing a shit job at hiding his amusement. “Was it that I dared to save you from falling on your ass? Or my complimenting the appearance you’re fussing over needlessly?”

  I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, swallowing some of my pride. “Why do you find this so funny?”

  “Because it’s been over two years and you’re being ridiculous.”

  I grit my teeth. “What the hell does it matter how long it’s been?” The memory is still as fresh as if it was yesterday. The cool metal of the bin pressing into my back while he thrusts mercilessly…

  “Just let the memory play. Get it all out of your system, mon chérie.”

  I stand up straighter. Did he just call me his dear? He has a lot of freaking nerve. Damn if I don’t want to slap that cocky smirk off his ruggedly handsome face. To feel that scruff between my thi… No. No, Whitney. Stop this shit right now. “I don’t want to talk about it; and just to be clear, I’m not your anything.”

  “I think we need to”—he brushes a lock of hair off my shoulder, his gentle fingers trailing along the nape of my neck—“clear the air.”

  A shiver reverberates through me, and I fight the urge to purr. I’m a mess…a wanton hussy.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Whitney.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I find myself mimicking the act. “I won’t lie and say I’m not crazy attracted to you, but I’m a professional. I’m here to do a job.”

  “As am I.”

  He nods, brushing a thumb over his lower lip. Is every move this guy makes just naturally arousing, or is he screwing with me? “No need to be ashamed of the chemistry lingering between us. We fucked.” He shrugs. “It happens.”

  Definitely screwing with me.

  He moves closer, but I’m too shocked to back away. “We were two consenting adults. It’s not like I plan to maul you against a casket.”

  Is that a shudder? A break in his confident demeanor? I shake out of my stupor enough to regain some of my wits. If he’s going to play, then so can I.

  “No?” I ask, running a hand over his chest. “Suddenly you have standards?”

  He shrugs, playing it off, but I know what I saw just now. A crack in his armor. I latch onto that weakness like my dignity depends on it. “I have respect for the dead.”

  “Just not for me?” I whisper, keeping my voice low and purposefully wobbly. Way to be strong!

  He hangs his head. “Look, we were both drunk and horny, and while the location may not have been ideal—”

  “It was a dumpster.”

  “You will never convince me you weren’t thoroughly satisfied.”

  He’s right. And that’s a huge part of the problem. I’m ashamed of myself. Ashamed that I wasn’t responsible enough to have learned from my past mistakes. That at the age of twenty I was still as reckless as the sixteen-year-old who let her hormones lead and wound up with a baby before finishing high school. Not anymore. I’ve grown a lot over the past two years. I will not be brought down so easily. “I just… I don’t do things like that.” Anymore. “I have a reputation…” I’m still trying to restore.

  “And I’m not here to ruin it.” He grips my chin in his thumb and forefinger, and I melt at his touch. I’m stunned by his audacity to—after so much time has passed—take such liberties with me. “What’d’ya say we start over? Pretend it never happened?”

  “You can forget we slept together?” I shriek. “Just like that?” I snap my fingers.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Now I’m appalled at the notion of being forgotten… I don’t even recognize myself right now.

  “Well, no… I’m just trying to help you get past this.”

  I snort. How very ladylike of me. I clap a hand over my mouth before hearing a distinctive grunt behind me.

  No. No, no, no, no, no…

  “Dad,” I say brightly, as I turn around, pulling out the remains of my acting skills. Watching the color draining from Wyatt’s face is almost worth the sheer mortification I’m suffering at his mere presence. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was coming by to tell you the Andersons are here to meet with you.” His eyes bounce between the two of us. “In the main parlor.”

  “Well,” I say, dipping from between the wall and the man my father’s attention is now laser focused on. “I won’t keep them waiting.”

  Never have I ever wanted to disappear the way I want to right fucking now.

  “Did I hear what I think I just heard?” The intimidating boar of a man rests his broad shoulder against the wall beneath the banister. Gone is the jovial guy I just spent over an hour chatting construction with—along with every ounce of oxygen from this room.

  “Sir?” I ask, not wanting to volunteer any more than absolutely necessary. I have no clue how much he heard, and right now, I’m having a hard time even remembering exactly what was said.

  Did someone turn the thermostat up?

  “Don’t play dumb with me, son. You just said you had relations with my daughter.”

  I roll my head shoulder to shoulder to alleviate the sudden strain while sweat beads my brow. “It was a few years ago.” Now would be a great time for the floor to split open and swallow me up. “I—I’m real sorry.”

  Hank holds out a hand, silencing me. “Don’t apologize. My daughter is of age to make her own decisions about who she allows into her life and her…her…” The big burly man is suddenly at a loss for words.

  “Her affairs?” I offer.

  He nods, his weight shifting uncomfortably. “Exactly.”

  “What happened between us won’t affect the work I do for you,” I assure him, my palms beginning to feel clammy.

  “That’s good, but I still got a few things to say. Wanna be sure we fully und
erstand each other.”

  “Okay.” I take a step away, which he follows with two forward. My back is literally against the wall. He’s so close I can smell his breath. It takes all my effort not to pull a face.

  “While she might be just another notch on your bedpost, Whitney is the love of my life.”

  I must be seeing things, because I swear the old man’s eyes start to water.

  “She’s been hurt.” He clears his throat, and it takes everything in me not to recoil from the spittle that lands on my cheek. “Let’s just say, I wasn’t a fan of it… Whatever you two do on your own time is between you and her and the Lord. But mark my words—the minute you make my baby girl cry, it’ll become about you and me. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. I wo—”

  “I’m not looking for empty promises.” He finally backs a few paces away, allowing me to draw in a huge breath of clean air. “I saw the way you two looked at one another.” He shakes his head as if an eventual fallout is imminent. “Just remember, you knock that girl up, it’s a two-for-one deal.”

  “Huh?” It’s probably the most immature response I could come back with, but the only one I can seem to conjure at the moment.

  “She didn’t tell you about little Prissy, did she?” He shakes his head. “I’m not surprised. Got a six-year-old daughter, me and her momma been helpin’ raise. That little girl’s daddy ain’t worth a shit.” He mutters something nonsensical beneath his breath. “Look…just don’t start nuthin’ with my girls you ain’t plannin’ on finishin’, and we’ll get along fine.”

  “No sir,” I answer, not having the slightest clue how the mention of one little hookup evolved into a lecture on relationships and children. But I’m not a dad, and I haven’t had one since I was four years old. So, while the man scares the shit out of me, it’s also heartwarming to witness him champion his daughter this way.

  “All right then.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes affectionately. “I got a body to take care of… I’ll see you in the chapel tomorrow morning at seven.” And just like that, he’s back to smiling and agreeable.