Page 117 of Mourner for Hire
“My dad wasn’t a fan of anything.”
“Wasn’t?”
“He died eight years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, then think better of it. “You know what? No, I’m not. Not really. My father was a miserable human—all TV dinners and resentment. I don’t think he ever wanted me. He was justleftwith me. When he died, I promised never to let my life fall under the thumb of another person.”
He scoffs, his lips dipping into his dimples. “You’re doing a pretty good job at that.”
“Anyway…” I smile, shifting the spoon ring off my middle finger, revealing a red thread tattoo. “And this one is for my soulmate, wherever they are. I lost my mom so young, and my dad was… not great. But I’ve always believed in love bigger than what I’ve known. Whether it be a best friend or a greatest love. Maybe it’s stupid to believe in something you’ve never experienced, but I guess that’s why they call it believing. And I believe there’s someone out there for me.”
I run my fingers over the red ink and then panic at my vulnerability, shoving the ring back on and then scratching my neck. A raindrop hits my nose, and I glance up at the inky sky. The rain poursdrop after drop to the steady rhythm of my heart. It’s cool against my skin, counteracting the heat of the water, and I welcome it.
Dominic’s jaw is tight, pulsing with every thought coursing through his mind. The silence lingers, the jets of the tub exploding into the quiet as the raindrops create circles in the water.
“You know, of all the marks on your skin, this one is my favorite,” he whispers, reaching out and touching the birthmark on my shoulder.
“I was always a little embarrassed of it growing up,” I confess, and his gaze meets mine with a burning intensity in his eyes.
“I love it.” He circles it again with his thumb, his touch sending a chill down my spine.
I pause, almost giving in. Almost, but…
“Yeah, well…” I lean forward. “I’m getting hot in here. It’s raining. We should get out. Thank you for helping.”
I’m rambling, and my words are jumbled. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. When I stand to get out of the hot tub, Dominic grabs my wrist.
“Hey…” he says, soft and deep. The voice of my worst nightmares and sweetest dreams.
I turn to face him, ready for him to make fun of me, make a joke, or tell me to hurry up and fulfill my duties so I can get the hell out of town.
When I turn to look at him, with soft eyes and tender lips, he says, “I think of that night, Vada.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do,” he argues, pulling me closer. I let him. “I think of it all the time. And I’ll think of last night, too.”
“Only because I’m here,” I reply, my chest pressed against his. “If I never came back to town, you wouldn’t even remember my name.”
“Lie,” he murmurs, running a hand up my neck.
I swallow against his palm.
“Thank you for helping me fix the wall,” I breathe, though it’s more or less a joke. The wall will need to be fixed tomorrow, and the mess we made will need to be cleaned.
His lips are inches from mine. His hand is on my neck, and the other is on my waist. The heat of his skin is pulsing against mine. I hate him, and I want him. The dichotomy of the feelings is ripping me apart. I want to escape from this town and never return, and I want to stay here, in his arms, for as long as he lets me.
“You make me crazy,” he whispers.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be gone soon.”
I swallow as his hand encases my jaw, tilting me so I can meet his mouth. My lips brush against his until they are firmly planted in the perfect kiss.
“You hate me,” I pant against his lips.
“I do,” he admits, kissing me again, running his tongue against mine.
