Page 100 of Mourner for Hire
In the process, she disrupts some sand, making a pot of flowers tip over, but she’s too far gone to notice. I set the food on the table just inside the cottage and step back outside to fix the pot, but the towel snags on that damn protruding nail in the doorway.
The momentum of my steps makes the towel yank hard against the rusty metal and tear, but not enough to rip all the way through, making me stumble forward and out of the towel. When I turn to hurry back to the sanctuary of my towel and the great indoors, the door slams shut, with the towel inside.
I twist the knob, but it’s locked.
“Oh, no. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.” I yank on the corner of the towel that didn’t make it inside. It doesn’t budge. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, panic rising to the surface of my very naked body. I check the front windows. Closed and locked. “Oh, no, no, no…” I cry to myself.
I glance out at the empty beach.
Thank God.
I also say a silent blessing to Annabelle for picking such a secluded location for her cottage—excellent positioning for both murders and naked humiliation. I start around the back side of the cottage to check for open windows. I usually have the bedroom one open, but I was hoping I accidentally left one of the lower-sitting ones open, like the dining room or the sunroom… if only I would be so lucky. I pass by the cedar hot tub and wiggle the handle to the sunroom.
No luck.
I contemplate breaking the glass.
“Oh, man, where is a ghost that can walk through walls when you need her?” I cry to myself.
Just as I walk toward the bedroom window, I hear the distinct rumble of an engine pulling down the drive, followed by very distinct footsteps.
“Fuck,” I whisper-shout. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I frantically search the storage bin for anything to cover myself, but all I find are a shovel, two rakes, and garden gloves.
“No!” I silent-scream as I hear Dominic holler, “Vada! You home? Is that you?”
Yeah, maybe my silent-scream wasn’t so silent.
“Vada?” he calls, rounding the corner.
I slap the garden gloves over my lady bits and cover my boobs with my arm.
He raises his eyebrows and rubs his eyes under his glasses, trying his damnedest not to laugh at the sight of me. “Gardening?”
“Yep,” I answer, stupidly prideful. “What do you want?” I ask, pretending I’m not naked, standing in front of my nemesis.
His cheek twitches to smile as he steps closer, making my skin flame. He looks like Clark Kent in his glasses. The 2013 version.
Damn.
“You shouldn’t just stop by, Dominic. You should call first. It’s rude. You never know what I could be doing. I could have company or be having a single sob-fest or… or… gardening.”
“Naked?” he asks, right next to me now, slipping his shirt off.
For a moment, I forget I’m butt-ass naked in front of him because his chest is…oh. And his abs. His shoulders. His tattoos. Even his thumbs… Oh my God.
Like a blanket over my thoughts, he slips his shirt over my head and pulls it down. I drop the gloves and diligently slip my arms through the holes. The soft black fabric slips down to the middle of my thighs.
“Thank you,” I mutter desperately.
His hands fall off my sides, and he crosses his arms. “Want to tell me what happened? No, wait. Let me guess. You went skinny dipping and locked yourself out.”
I tilt my head and shrug. “That sounds more fun, but no.”
“Really? You strike me as a skinny dipper.”
“I do?” Genuine shock floodsmy mind.
