Coleman surprised me by taking my hand in his, and we walked across the street together. I heard the blip blip of a red sports car parked in front of mine and snapped my head to look at Coleman in surprise.
He flashed me his grin. “Don’t judge me.”
I returned his smile, relief flooding me. He didn’t drive the death mobile! He drove a sexy red sports car! I could have hugged him.
“Follow me.”
I climbed into my hatchback and started up the engine. It was time for a good talking to. So far, Coleman had been wonderful. He was a total gentleman, he was flirty and fun and interested in me, and he wanted to show me something that would help me understand who he was. I had to stop my mind messing with me. He was a nice guy, and I was lucky to be on a date with him.
I followed him through the city streets, through Newmarket, and onto the busy motorway. A few exits later, we left the motorway and drove through a leafy suburb. We pulled into a carpark at the back of a weatherboard building.
I stepped out of my car, looking around. Although it was clearly the back of a building, it was beautifully landscaped, with a row of magnolias on both sides of the carpark, a border of lavender, and a perfectly manicured hedge completing the look.
“Hey,” Coleman said, smiling at me as I locked my car.
“Hey,” I echoed, returning his smile, the butterflies back in my belly.
Our date was back on track.
“I’m really excited to share this with you,” he said, running his hand down my arm and taking my hand in his.
“I’m really excited you want to,” I replied. We stood looking at one another for a beat, two.
It felt nice; it felt right.
“Now, when we go in I need you to forget what it is and just appreciate it for its beauty, all right?”
“Okay.” I nodded at him as my hand got clammy. “Is this . . . is this your funeral parlor?”
“It sure is,” he said with obvious pride.
Suddenly, I was having a tough time not seeing Coleman as Peter Krause in Six Feet Under. Will any of the dead bodies sit up and talk to me?
He let go of my hand and unlocked the back door. Swinging it open, he stood back for me to enter.
“Thank you,” I muttered. I slunk inside.
As Coleman banged the door shut behind me, I almost jumped out of my Nine Wests. I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to quell my nerves. Come on! I was being ridiculous! I was simply visiting Coleman’s workplace, a workplace like any other. It was no big deal.
Only . . . there weren’t any dead people where I worked.
“Come through here.” Coleman pushed a heavy, stained wooden door open, and I was genuinely surprised it didn’t creak in a sinister way.
He held the door open for me once more, and I walked into a dimly-lit room, seriously beginning to question my sanity. Sure, I’d researched him on social media and found out what I could about him, and he seemed like a nice guy. But I didn’t know him, not really. This was our first date, after all. What was I doing here? Why had I gone to a second location with him, the one thing you’re not meant to do? What was he going to do to me? What was . . .
Coleman flicked the light switch, and the room was instantly flooded with bright light. I glanced around, taking in the workbench, the tools, the wood shavings on the floor.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” Coleman said as he took a few short strides over toward a bulky item, covered with a gray tarpaulin in the center of the room. He took the corner in his hand and tugged, the light fabric of the tarpaulin slipping down to the ground in one graceful movement.
My mouth slackened, and my eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Coleman was beaming with pride, standing next to an ornate coffin. It looked like it was only half finished. One end was rough and could give you splinters if you touched it, and the other was intricately carved into a beautiful pattern of what appeared to be climbing roses.
“I’ve been working on this for weeks. I’m hoping to start a line of these for the home. Kind of like the luxury end of the market.”
There was a luxury end in death? I took a step back as every thought, every red flag, every one of my fears reached a crescendo in my brain. Coleman was a mortician, and his hobby was to work on coffins.
I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out of here!
Coleman looked at me questioningly. “Are you okay, Marissa? You look . . . weird.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, as I took another step away from Coleman and his coffin, I bumped into the open door, making me leap.
“I . . . I have to go,” I managed as I fumbled for the doorknob. Finding it, I pulled the door open and, without a backward glance, turned on my heel. I fled out the door, down the hallway, toward the exit. As I reached the door to freedom, I yanked it open and got my shoe wedged between the door and the wall. I wrestled with it, trying to break it free, but it was stuck.
Despite my thudding heart, banging in my ears, I could hear footsteps behind me.
“Marissa?” Coleman called out.
I turned and looked into his bemused face as I wrenched my foot out of my shoe. “Sorry,” I muttered. I took two steps out the door and pulled it closed behind me. Panicked and wearing only one shoe, I rummaged through my purse for my keys, finding everything but: a packet of tissues, my lipstick, a shopping list, a hair tie. Finally, my fingers felt something metal, and I yanked my keys out with shaking hands, hearing the satisfying blip blip of my car unlocking.
I grabbed hold of the door handle, pulled it open, and dived in. I glanced up and saw Coleman, standing in the doorway, watching me, looking like he had absolutely no idea what had just happened.
After three attempts to get my key in the ignition—why did they make the hole so small?—I started the car, banged it into gear, and hightailed it out of there with my tires squealing like a hoard of unhappy piglets.
A flirty mortician who carved coffins for fun was clearly a step too far for Marissa Jones.
Chapter 3
Two Last First Dates – Nash
I had managed to calm myself down, pushing thoughts of coffins, death, and Coleman—in no particular order—right down into the deep recesses of my mind before I got out of my car to meet date number two for the day.
When I’d reached my apartment after my hasty retreat, my nosy and annoying older brother, Ryan, had quizzed me on my date.
“That sounds like it totally sucked,” he’d said with a chuckle as he plopped himself down on the sofa next to where I had been trying to recover from my ordeal.
“Not the best,” I’d replied, crossing my arms defensively.
“Ah, sis. Sorry about that.”
I rolled my own. “Sure, you are.”
I was about as convinced as my high school math teacher when I’d told her my completed homework assignment had “accidentally” fallen into the blender with a handful of blueberries and yogurt.
“No, I am. Really. Of course, finding that happily ever after you and your friends are looking for is never going to happen. But still, you don’t want a bad date.”
Had I mentioned my brother had become a total cynical pain in the ass since his breakup?
In my car, I pushed Ryan’s negativity out of my head. He may have been in a “relationships suck” state of mind, but I was looking for Mr. Right, and I wasn’t going to let him drag me down.
I glanced at my watch. I had a few minutes to spare before I met my second Last First Date. I pulled my phone out of my purse and pressed the Facebook app. I bit my lip. Should I check it? Before I could stop myself, I typed in “Eddie Sutcliffe,” my belly flip-flopping the instant his gorgeous smiling face filled my screen. I pressed “About” and scanned the screen. When my eyes settled on the words “Engaged,” I quickly switched my phone off and slipped it back in my purse.
No change there.
I checked my reflection in the mirror and climbed out of my car. A second Last Firs
t Date called for a new outfit, and I was dressed in my favorite pair of skinny jeans, a cute pink T-shirt, a floppy hat on my head to protect me from the summer sun, and the “sensible shoes” my date had asked me to wear.
After a short walk, I arrived at the seaside park we were due to meet at. I looked around. The place was full of people with their happy, yappy dogs, throwing sticks and balls. I smiled to myself. They were having the time of their lives, running, jumping, playing. I watched a newly arrived dog run over and sniff another dog’s butt. They were so obvious in their interest in one another: no subterfuge, just a straight out “I want to sniff your butt. Want to sniff mine?” approach, where every dog knew where she or he stood.
Why couldn’t it be as simple for us humans? Not that I was into butt sniffing or anything, you understand.
I scanned the park, looking for Nash Campbell, Mr. Construction Worker, my second date of the day. The good news was, however, there was no sign of Cassie, Paige, or Bailey here. That was a good sign: I could have this second date of the day in peace and quiet.
“Marissa!” I heard a voice call. I looked over to a group of beautiful pohutukawa trees in full bloom—New Zealand’s Christmas tree, as they were known, thanks to their red flowers appearing in December each year. I spotted Nash waving at me beneath them, a grin on his Jon Snow face.
I waved back and navigated my way through the dogs and their owners, reaching his side a few moments later.
“Hey,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. He put his hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. That was two cheek kisses today and counting.
“Hi, Nash,” I replied, returning his grin.
“Looking good!” he exclaimed, taking in my casual attire. “I like the jeans and T-shirt thing. It’s great to see you out of your clothes,” he said.
I shot him a quizzical look. Did he really just say it was good to see me naked? I glanced down at my T-shirt. No “Nipplegate” situation, nothing where it shouldn’t be. I looked back up at him, my brows knitted together.
His grin dropped. “No no no no no. I mean, it’s not that I want to see you without your clothes on . . . well, I do, but . . . you look good in different clothes. That’s what I mean.” He scrunched up his face, regarding me through squinted eyes.
“Err, thanks?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m pretty smooth, aren’t I?”
“‘Smooth’ is probably not the word I’d use, but you’re cute, so you can get away with it.”
“Cute is good. I’m happy with that.”
I smiled at him. He must be nervous. Either that or I hadn’t noticed he could put his foot so firmly in his mouth when we’d met that day outside the construction site.
“Shall we start again?” he asked, his face hopeful.
Before I had the chance to reply, a dog shot past me, clipping me with his tail. “Ow!” I called out, more from shock than pain.
“Dexter!” Nash yelled in a loud voice beside me, making me jump. I watched as the whippy-tailed black dog stopped in his tracks, turned, and came bounding over toward us, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. He looked like he was in complete and utter doggy heaven.
“Good boy,” Nash said, squatting down next to him and patting him firmly on the side, Dexter’s tail wagging so hard it could spin off. Nash looked up at me and said, “This is Dexter. Dexter meet Marissa.”
I wasn’t quite sure what the protocol was when meeting a dog, so I gave him a tentative pat on the head and said, “Hello, Dexter.” The dog butted my hand and proceeded to lick it before I had the chance to steal it away, leaving a slick of dog slobber on my palm.
Nash didn’t seem to notice—or care. “He likes you.”
“Great,” I replied, wishing I’d thought to bring some hand sanitizer.
Nash straightened up. “Here,” he said, holding a long, hot pink plastic stick with a tennis ball sitting in a holder at the end. “Take this and throw.”
“Okay.” I took the stick and noticed as Dexter’s excited attention was immediately directed at me. I had seen these things before, but never actually used one. Dexter’s eyes were trained on me as though he and I were the only creatures on the face of the planet—which could almost be romantic if it wasn’t for the fact Dexter was a dog. I raised the stick behind my head and threw it with all my might. As soon as it was out of my hand, Dexter darted after it. I turned to Nash, happy with my efforts.
“Ah, you’re not meant to throw the whole thing,” Nash said, shaking his head. “Just the ball.”
I bit my lip. “Oh.” So, now it was my turn to be humiliated? I looked over on the grass to where Dexter was pawing at the ball, still stuck in the ball holder at the end of the stick. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” Nash said, walking toward Dexter. He picked the contraption up and threw the ball. I watched as it sailed through the air, Dexter sprinting after it, expertly avoiding any people or dogs in his path.
“You’re not a dog person, are you?” Nash said.
I shrugged. “Actually, I really like dogs, it’s just I haven’t had one since I was kid. I’d like to again one day, though.” I watched a couple of small, fluffy dogs dart around one another, yapping excitedly, and couldn’t help but smile. “Dexter seems . . . nice.”
Nash chuckled, clearly recovered from his “It’s good to see you out of your clothes” comment earlier. “He certainly is ‘nice,’ as you put it. He’s a rescue dog.”
“Oh? Wow.” I had a sudden image of Nash, dressed in sexy mountaineering clothes, finding Dexter as a sweet little puppy, cowering under a rock, and my heart melted.
“You see that’s why I wanted to bring you here. Dex is a really big part of my life, and I’m involved in a dog rescue organization.”
“That’s so great,” I said, looking at Nash through fresh eyes. Sure, I’d known he was into dogs from his social media profile, but this was his passion. And it looked good on him.
“Thanks,” he beamed at me. “Dex was my first dog, but I’ve got some more right now, too.”
“More?” I asked, my eyebrows raised in alarm. “How many, exactly?”
“Well, there’s Gretel. She’s at home.”
“Okay. So, you have Dexter and Gretel.”
Two dogs? That seemed reasonable to me. Not weird. I’d had enough weird for one day.
“And there are the puppies, too.” Dexter dropped the ball at Nash’s feet. He picked it up with his ball holder and threw it again, the dog scampering after it.
“You have puppies?” I put my hand to my chest. “Aw! I love puppies. How many?”
“Five.”
Back up the bus, Nash had seven dogs? Was it just me or was that a little over the top, perhaps even dog-obsessive?
“Wow, you must go through the slippers,” I said, unsettled.
Was there such a thing as a weird dog guy, like there was a weird cat lady?
He chuckled. “Yeah.”
“So, you like dogs, huh?” I said, trying to push the idea of Nash being some kind of bizarre dog-obsessive from my head.
Of course, I knew the answer to this question. I had stalked him, after all. And then there was the fact he had seven dogs. If he didn’t like them, he’d have to be a special kind of weird.
Nash furrowed his brow. “Yes,” he replied as though I hadn’t noticed we were a) at a dog park with his dog, and b) he’d just told me about his gaggle of canines.
Right on cue, Dexter bounded over to us and dropped the slobbery old tennis ball at Nash’s feet once again. In one fluid movement, he scooped the ball up in the ball holder and threw it. And this routine was repeated again, and again, and again.
“What got you into rescuing dogs?” I asked after an awkward silence in which I tried not to think about how bad Nash’s house must smell. I mean, five puppies? Don’t they need to be house-trained? There must be puppy poop and pee everywhere. Euw!
“I grew up with dogs, so I’ve always loved them. A while back, I
decided I wanted to do something more meaningful than managing construction sites. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job, but I love dogs, and I’m happy to help them out any way I can.”
The way he put it didn’t make him sound weird at all. In fact, I liked it. “You have a passion and you’re pursuing it. I admire that. A lot of people spend their whole lives not following their passion.”
He threw the ball—yet again—for Dexter, regarding me out of the corner of his eye. “What’s the passion you’re not pursuing?”
Momentarily surprised at such a direct question, particularly from a man holding a large hot pink ball throwing device in his hand, I bumbled my reply. “Oh . . . umm . . . nothing much.”
He turned to face me. “Come on, there must be something.”
My tummy tied into a knot. There was something, but I hadn’t talked to anybody about it before. I pulled a face, hoping he’d get the message.
He didn’t. “Shall I guess?”
I shrugged.
“You want to run off and join the circus so you can share your lion-taming skills with the world.”
“Close, but no banana,” I replied with a small smile.
“Oh, I’ve got it! You’ve got your name down for reassignment surgery, just waiting to become ‘Malcolm’?”
I whacked him playfully on the arm. “No! And thanks a lot.”
He shrugged. “I’m just trying to make up for that whole embarrassing thing about your clothes earlier,” he replied.
I sniggered, enjoying the feeling of closeness our banter was generating. “By suggesting I want to be a man?”
“Hey, it’s your passion, honey. I’m just trying to work out what it is since you refuse to tell me.”
Softening, I replied, “If I tell you, will you promise not to share it with anyone and drop the whole ‘Malcolm’ thing?”
“I promise.” He placed his hand over his heart, and I immediately noticed the outline of his firm pecs under his T-shirt. I bit my lip.
Not bad, not bad at all.
Three Last First Dates Page 3