Page 28 of Living with Death

“No one is ever above anyone, Mother. Those people are lovely. Don't talk down about them. You don't know any of them.” I open the door. She walks out onto the porch, turning around.

The. Water. Shuts. Off.

Her eyes shoot upstairs, and she looks at the coat hanger. They widen. Shit, Azrael's blazer hangs on top of my other coats. “Mabel Carmichael, who is in this house?” she says as her Jimmy Choo takes a step forward quicker than I anticipated.

She steps past me and takes the stairs. I reach for her but miss her as she runs. Jesus, the woman can walk in those shoes. She’s had years of practice. I hurry after her.

“Mother,” I call out, taking the steps two at a time. I rush into my bedroom, rounding the corner, out of breath. “You can't go roaming around my house. There's nothing for you to…”

She pushes the door open, and I freeze, grimacing. Steam rolls out of the bathroom. She glances back at me, narrowing her eyes. “Whose blazer is that down there?”

“It belongs to a friend.”

“And where is this friend?” she says, walking away from the bathroom.

Huh, he's not in there?

I peek around and look in, seeing no trace of him.

I narrow my eyes, looking around my room before following her as she walks in and out of rooms, the sound of her heels yapping away on my hardwood floor.

“What are you doing?”

“I know there's someone else in this house, Mabel. I want to meet the man.”

“There's no man.”

“You're lying. You had two cans of water down there.” She opens the linen closet and shuts it quickly. “And you don't eat more than two slices of pizza. I've trained you in this.”

I roll my eyes.

“I thought you said you weren't interested in a man, and here you have one taking a shower in your house?”

Mother looks in the second bedroom, yanking open the closet but comes up empty again.

“Mom, you've gotten out of hand. There's no one in this house but us two. Now, will you please let me be?”

She stops searching and studies me. “Fine,” she says. “But I will meet this man eventually,” she yells out so he can hear her. I groan internally.

Azrael's heard all of this.

He must be changing his mind about sharing a life with me, and I don't blame him. He'll take my soul and be on his way. She hits the stairs, sliding her manicured hand down the railing. I lean over as she stops and studies the blazer.

“At least he has good taste,” she says, opening the door. “Throw away those clothes. I'm buying you some nightgowns. Honestly, how can you let a man see you like that?” She slams the door, and I hang my head.

That woman will be the death of me.

Chapter Eight

“She’s fascinating,” Azrael says dryly.

I turn, seeing him shirtless, with black jogging pants on, towel drying his hair.

My mouth dries.

I recall what he just said, trying my best not to let my eyes roam down his body or over the tattoos he has down his forearms.

How is it possible to have a body like that?

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