She doesn’t encourage him, but it’s hard not to appreciate his perseverance. She shakes her head, but her smile is enough for him to call it in his own favor. He grabs his paper from my hand, not caring that I haven’t even finished reading it, and heads toward the door.
“Take that by Grandpa, Jacob,” I order.
He shrugs on his way out. “Maybe.”
“Ah, alone at last,” Holly says as Jacob leaves. She plops down in my desk chair, spinning circles with her head thrown back to stare at the fluorescent lights. It makes me dizzy just to watch.
“What’re you doing here, Holls?” I ask as I pick my scalpel back up. I can work with her here. She’s used to it. I press the blade to Chad’s abdomen for the third time, hoping it’s the charm. I pause for a split second to make sure nothing else is going to interrupt me, but it’s all good this time, so I make my incision.
The chair continues spinning as she says, “Finished work—every last Gertrude and Harold fixed up with nowhere to go—so I thought I’d see if I could talk you into an after-work drink. My babysitter’s there ’till seven today.”
Holly takes her work seriously, her play even more so. And she likes to drag me along for her escapades. And as much as I’d love to say no, I learned long ago that it’s faster to go for the drink, even if I’d rather skip it. The argument alone where she tries to talk me into it will take longer than drinking a glass of wine.
“Sure. One drink.” I hold up a gloved finger, and Holly stops her spinning long enough to give a victory dance that involves wiggling her hips in the chair and kicking her legs in the air. Ironically, it makes this ‘MILF’ look more like a teenager.
“Where you wanna go?” she asks, all sarcasm. There are only two bars close by and only one of those that we go to.
“Guess,” I fire back with sarcasm of my own. I don’t stop working as I ask, “How’s your week been?”
She spins again, adding a sigh. “Good. It’s been slow, which is both good and bad. Dad’s worried about the business side of things, and no matter how many times I tell him that everyone dies eventually, he still keeps crunching numbers and saying creepy things like, ‘We need two more funerals this month to get out of the red,’ which makes him sound like a serial killer. But on the upside, not too stressful . . . all things considered.”
I get what she means. Holly has enough stress in her life. She’s a single mom, she works with her dad in the family business, she’s alone a lot, and she deals with death all day, every day. She is quite the badass, though, keeping a golden outlook on life while taking care of her five-year-old, Olive, who’s really the cutest kid in the county, in my opinion.
Holly goes quiet for a moment, and I glance up to find her smiling at her phone. “You’d better not be DMing some fuckboy. You deserve better than that, Holls.”
She’s slow to tear her eyes from the screen, but when she does, I can tell she’s gearing up for round ninety-four of a fight we’ve had before. “Just because you choose frigidity doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t choose good dick. You make it sound like these guys are taking advantage of me, but trust me, it’s the other way around. I want some adult conversation that isn’t about” —she gestures to Chad’s body where I’m still working— “this, someone to have a drink with when my bestie bails on me, or someone to press my buttons when my battery-powered bedside buddy starts catching feels because we’ve seen each other so many times this week.”
Her smirk lets me know that I’m never gonna win this one. She might hope to meet her soulmate, but she’s okay with meeting a temporary fix too. I shouldn’t judge her considering I don’t meet anyone, ever.
Nor do I have any intention of doing so.
“Fine, text your fuck boy. Does he at least use your thighs like earmuffs?”
I don’t get an answer because the door opens as I finish my question. I turn, expecting to find Alver, the deputy security guard from upstairs. He’s good about asking if I want to order dinner when he orders his own because I always work late.
But it’s not Alver.
It’s . . . Blake Hale.
In my morgue.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, embarrassed because I know he heard what I asked Holly.
His blue eyes are scanning the room, leaving no corner unexamined until he gets to me. Well, more likely to Chad, who’s laid open in front of me. That obviously sets him back because he makes a small choking sound deep in his throat that makes me laugh a bit.
“Feel free to go back out the way you came in if it’s too much for you,” I offer snidely with a shooing wave of my hand.
He stands straighter, stretching to what must be six-two or three, and a muscle in his jaw works. “Not until you do the paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” Holly interjects. “Interesting.”
I pause, realizing this is going to go over like a fart in church when I explain. “I got in a tiny little fender bender, but I’m fine. More importantly, the other guy is fine too.”
I tilt my head toward Blake, inviting him to disagree. Sure, I downplayed the accident, but Blake seems ready to let it slide.
I also look for wood to touch again but still find none. I cross my fingers once more because though Blake Hale had looked good—too good, in fact—after the small accident, he looks even better now.
He’s wearing a button-up shirt, rolled up to show his forearms, and a silver watch and flat-front khakis with a dark brown belt, which could come off as bland business casual. But the fire in his eyes has me feeling warm and tingly in this icebox of a room.
I’m honestly glad he seems so vibrantly alive because I had a nightmare that he dropped dead of an aneurysm after leaving the accident scene. It’d bothered me so much that I actually searched the database to be sure that hadn’t happened.
But with the scowl he’s throwing my way, perhaps my relief was premature because I can see the way his heart is racing by the pulse in his neck beneath that jaw muscle that’s still working double-time.
It’d probably serve me right to have him die right here in front of me in my morgue. God, that story would make the rounds in an instant.
Despite whatever stare down moment Blake and I are having, Holly is having none of it. She not only stops spinning in my chair but leaps from it to come to my side and smack my ass.
“What the ever-loving actual fuck, Zoey? An accident? That is the sort of thing that requires an immediate phone call. Friend Code 101. Are you okay? Really okay?” She scans me from head to toe, looking for anything amiss as she lifts my left arm and then right, scalpel and all.
“I’m fine,” I say reassuringly as I shrug her off. Believing me, she whirls on Blake. “You’re that guy . . . ‘Call me, Blake Hale, today at (555) 917-LIFE.’ Aren’t you?”
“How do you know his number?” The words pop off my tongue before I even realize I’ve thought them.
Holly’s answering smile is pure evil, decadently reveling in whatever plot she’s cooking up. “His commercials, of course. Mr. Hale here is a life insurance guy, and you’re a death dealer.” She holds a hand up to stop the argument she knows is coming. I hate when she calls me that even if I’m the one who said it first during a drunken, tearful breakdown shortly after Grandpa died.
“You two are a match made in heaven if there ever were one. Especially considering the wreck didn’t kill him,” she adds sassily, knowing how touchy I am about my history from that same drunken conversation. Flipping back around as though she’s a tennis ref, she gives me her back and focuses on Blake once again. “I’m Holly, the bestest of the besties. So start talking, what paperwork?”
Blake has the good sense to look confused as hell by whatever he’s walked into. I’m not surprised. Holly has that effect on people. I do too. But the reminder about whatever brought him here draws his focus back to me. “You haven’t done the paperwork on the accident, so the county office is giving me the runaround about the claim. I need it done . . . now.”
/> I bristle at his bossy tone. “Kinda busy at the moment.” I wave my gloved hands around, gesturing to Chad.
Sorry, man. It’s not usually this crazy here.
All good, this is more interesting than what I’ve got going on now, anyway. If I could, I’d be munching on popcorn right now.
My brow quirks at Chad’s insolence.
Blake still isn’t put off, though. He crosses his arms over his chest, his feet stepped out wide. It’s almost a bar bouncer pose, meant to intimidate, except no one in the history of ever has been intimidating in khaki pants. I don’t think it’s humanly possible. Especially when you’re as attractive as Blake Hale is.
“I’ll wait until you’re done. Then you can do the paperwork.”
I can tell he thinks that’s a negotiation. Now versus when I’m done. “I have plans tonight. I’ll get to it when I get to it.”
A twitch breaks out over his right brow, and I have to fight pulling out a victory dance and singing off-key . . . get to it when I get to it, and newsflash, that’ll be never.
Fine, I will do it. If I don’t, the county motor pool manager is going to be on my ass. But I refuse to do it when Blake’s being all Bossy McBosserson, telling me what to do and when to do it. No, thank you. I’ve had plenty of guys—deputies, usually—try to tell me how to do my job as if they have a damn clue.
But I hold my ground and do what I do best, handle my job the way Grandpa taught me. And right now, getting answers for Chad’s family is priority over some paperwork so Blake can get his passenger door fixed.
Holly suddenly holds her phone up, waving it around, and then presses it to her ear. “Oh, no! Is Olive okay?” She pauses for a dramatic moment to be sure we’re listening. “Of course, I can come home right now. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in a flash.” She takes the phone from her ear and puts it in her back pocket. “Sorry, I have to bail on our drinks tonight, Zoey. Olive isn’t feeling well, so I’m heading home to take care of her.”
It would all seem reasonable, if not convenient, except for one small, glaring detail. “Holly, your phone never rang and I could see your damn home screen.”
She shrugs, unconcerned. “Mother’s prerogative to decide to go home for snuggle times. You should consider some snuggle time yourself after you do Blake’s . . . paperwork.”
She does not mean the papers I have to fill out and file with the county secretary. That much is clear by the seductive way she says ‘paperwork’ even though it’s not a sexy word in the slightest. One more look passes between the two of us, and she damn near runs for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
As if there’s a single, solitary thing she would say no to.
Blake is smug as can be as he takes over the chair where Holly was sitting.
Why does everyone just help themselves to my space? This is a morgue, not a Starbucks.
Blake, though, seems to at least be willing to be polite about it. “I’m not trying to piss you off, but I really do need that paperwork done so I can get my car fixed.”
Okay . . . that’s a little bit of progress. “Fine. Suit yourself if you want to wait. This might take a while.”
Chapter 5
Blake
I hear the dare in her voice, see the challenge in her eyes as she glares at me in her desk chair. I’m not sure what prompts me to do it, but I give myself a good spin like Holly did a moment ago before they realized I’d entered the room.
When Zoey growls a bit, I know good and well exactly why I did it. I like setting her on edge because she makes me feel that way just by turning oxygen into carbon dioxide. Turnabout only seems fair.
The tension works through her, from her surgical cap-covered hair to her bootie-covered feet, her shoulders bunched up, her jaw tight, and her back ramrod straight. In contrast, I slouch comfortably in her chair with my head thrown back against the headrest and give her a lazy smile that clearly says, challenge accepted.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask even though I can see exactly what she’s doing, gross and disgusting as it may be. I want to keep looking at Zoey, especially when I can look my fill because she’s giving me zero fucks, but my stomach revolts. Not at her, but at the way her gloved hands disappear into the body on her table and reappear. I’m trying my hardest to hold onto my man card, but I can feel my palms going clammy where I grip the hand rests.
This isn’t a George Romero movie or something. There are no gushing geysers of claret or ropy strings of internal organs being yanked out. This is real, and while it’s not as bloody, ironically, that somehow makes it all the more disturbing.
And Zoey’s utterly comfortable with it. “Working.”
She shows no interest in continuing a conversation, and in fact, doesn’t even look up—how is she doing that without hurling all over the place? —but I’m not easily swayed and am definitely no quitter. Especially when I think the payoff will be worth it. And something tells me Zoey Walker is worth a hell of a lot more than a little one-sided conversational work.
So I keep at it.
“County Coroner. That’s an unusual field of work. How’d you get into it?” I ask.
Her concentration stays on the man in front of her, and I can’t help but feel a bit of jealousy. I know he’s dead and all, but damn, I’d like her attention on me. I think feeling the full impact of Zoey’s focus would feel like the sun coming out from behind a storm cloud and shining down on me. Or at least, not having my lunch threatening to make a repeat appearance. I guess that’s my new bar of excellence.
“My grandpa was the coroner before me. I worked with him, took over when he passed.” Her answer is clipped and robotic, and I realize belatedly that she probably gets asked that regularly, and now I sound like some misogynistic neckbeard when I was just trying to make conversation.
Note to self, her job is probably not safe territory.
For her or my stomach.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The apology is automatic, but I am sorry she lost someone close to her. And that I’m stumbling over my tongue because I’m not used to this. People like me . . . women like me.
But Zoey?
She’s immune to whatever charms I might have, and it’s throwing me for a loop, and it’s not one of those fun roller coaster ones where you know that you’ll pull back into the unloading zone safe and sound in ninety seconds.
Nope, this is more like pulling G-force loops in an experimental fighter jet with no pilot license. She doesn’t acknowledge the apology, squinting at something inside the guy’s trunk.
Oh, God, is that an actual kidney? A burp tries to work its way up my throat, and I hold it back, not trusting it. Distract yourself, Blake! Don’t puss out!
I decide to go offensive and play a little hardball and also talk to keep things moving in the right direction. And by that, I mean down my esophagus with only air passing over my lips.
“Me?” I prompt, highlighting that it was her turn to ask me a question, but all I get is an answering sigh that fogs up her face shield. “Oh, I got into life insurance after college. Got a decent head for stats” —I tap my temple— “so it seemed fitting.”
“Good for you, Mr. Hale.”
“Blake,” I correct. “What else am I into? Glad you asked,” I say, sounding a bit game-show host-like. That does get the smallest hint of a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I’m still counting the small victory. “I work out with my best friend. His name’s Trey. I play co-ed rec soccer for the Silver Sun Pickups . . . have Sunday brunch with my family . . . play barroom trivia with a team at a pub near my apartment . . .” I search my mind, trying to figure out what else I do so I can continue my All About Blake TED talk, but that’s pretty much it.
Does that sound shitty?
Should I be volunteering at the animal shelter, cleaning up trash in the neighborhood park, or some other Good Samaritan type deal? Zoey seems like the kind of woman who does stuff like that.
While I have a minor
existential crisis about the value of what I’m offering the world at large—newsflash, it’s not stellar and I should probably do something about that—Zoey seems to have gone off on an entirely different mental tangent.
“That’s a lot of people. Friends, teams, family.” Her hands have paused, or at least I assume they have because though they’re inside the open-chested guy, she seems still somehow. Quiet, thoughtful . . . no, that’s not all. She seems . . . sad?
“You have people? Other than Holly, I mean.” I chance a glance toward the door to make sure Holly isn’t loitering around to eavesdrop. “She seems like a lot, so she probably counts for like three people at least.”
That does get the corners of Zoey’s lips to tilt up in an actual smile.
I’d call that a big victory except that her shrug is noncommittal. That shrug of hers is basically the kiss of death, a clear sign that she doesn’t care whether I’m here or not.
But I need to be here—for the paperwork.
And because I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the other day, and surprisingly, those thoughts have not at all been about how she caused thousands of dollars of damage to my car but that her lips were the prettiest shade of pink.
“Holly,” she finally says. “And Jacob.”
Oh, damn! I got an answer!
I hate Jacob instantly.
Whoever the hell he is.
“Who’s Jacob? Husband? Boyfriend? Kid? Dog, right? Tell me he’s your pet labradoodle and put me out of my misery, Zo.” I slap an open palm to my chest over my heart, which has stopped beating as I dramatically wait on pins and needles for her to answer.
Zoey pulls something large and meaty looking out of the body, and I gag aloud before I can stop it this time.
She looks up at the sound, eyes going from me to the whatever that is, and no, I absolutely don’t want to know.
I swallow again, not willing to look away now that I’m this close to a break-through with her.
Oh, she doesn’t want to tell me, but she does too. I can sense her reserve, but she’s licking her lips like she can taste the words.
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