Page 66 of Mourner for Hire
“Anyway, I have a lot to do.” I hope she takes the hint. I work better alone.
Her gaze darts past my shoulder. I follow it and see she’s looking at the disaster of a cottage. Bare unfinished wood floors. Cabinets falling off their hinges.
“Yes, exactly,” I answer her unspoken comment. “I have a lot to do today.”
Annabelle disappears in a reluctant poof, and I’m off to the hardware store.
After using the trusty and mysterious credit card Annabelle left me to buy a wallpaper remover and a five-gallon bucket of white interior paint and supplies, I head back to the cottage and change into a T-shirt and shorts.
I spend the next several hours checking for nails in the floor to remove, and then steaming and removing the yellowed floral wallpaper until my hands are sore and my stomach is growling. I ignore my hunger pangs while I clean the wall and prep it for paint.
One coat down, and my stomach riots again. I stare at the drying paint, and finally giving in to hunger, I open my phone and flop back on the denim couch, scrolling the restaurants that will deliver. It’s five in the evening, and I’m hungryfor both breakfast and dinner. I could go for a stack of pancakes, an omelet, teriyaki, and pulled pork all at the same time.
I’m that hungry. I start ordering it all. I have a lot of work ahead of me—might as well stock up.
Five minutes later, I’ve completed all four orders, and each has an estimated delivery time of thirty to forty-five minutes. So when there’s a knock on the door, I assume it’s Annabelle.
I stomp over as if my feet are made of lead and swing the door open. “Would you please haunt someone else for a minute?—”
My breathing stops as I see Dominic standing on the welcome mat, holding a white paper bag. The line between his brows deepens.
“Ungrateful. Of course. Very fitting,” he says, holding out the bag.
I stare at it then back at him. “What is it? Dog shit? Were you planning on lighting it on fire and running away?”
“No, sweetheart. I am… trying to be… nice.”
The way he drags out the sentence confirms he is, indeed, trying.
“Okay.”
When I still don’t take the bag, he reaches out and takes my hand and places it on the bag.
“For you,” he says like I’m stupid. “It’s two homemade Pop-Tart-like pastries and three Maple Syrup Chocolate Chunk cookies.”
“For me?” I repeat as I cautiously open the bag and peer inside.
“They’re gluten-free.”
“I’m not gluten-free,” I retort, and he flares his nostrils.
“Jesus, just take them and say thank you.”
“Thank you. You didn’t poison them?” I ask and then inhale deeply. The rich aroma is absolutely divine. “Oh my God, these smell so good.”
“Tasha is an excellent baker,” he agrees. “She had leftovers at the end of the market. I thought I’d drop them offto be…”
His voice trails, and I venture, “…nice?”
“Right.”
I take another whiff like it’s aromatherapy. “I want to bathe in these.”
“That’s weird.”
“I want a steam room dedicated to this scent at the spa.”
He cocks an eyebrow, and I hold a cookie out to him.
