Page 15 of Mourner for Hire
This does it. It makes her smile—the shame and tension melting away from her face. The torture in her expression evaporates with her perfect smile.
“Please don’t tell anybody about this.”
“I would never.” I smile softly.
She starts walking backward to the door. Slowly. Like she’s afraid I’m going to pounce on her. She snaps and points with her thumb over her shoulder. “I really gotta go. I wasn’t supposed to stay over. I wasn’t supposed to, um, do—” she clears her throat and winces, “—this?”
I smile, my eyes dancing over her. She’s a hot mess of a human right now, and yet, I still find her interesting.
“Would you like some coffee before you go? Breakfast? You shouldn’t work on an empty tummy.”
She smiles. “Oh, such a manly man using the wordtummyis rather adorable,” she says but shakes her head. “No, thank you. I need to go. I…” She holds out her hand to shake mine. “Thank you?”
I let out a breath of a laugh.
“You’re welcome?” I question back, shaking her hand.
“All right.” She clears her throat. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course,” I say, then nod across the room. “Right through there.”
I watch her walk through, trying to identify this feeling warming inside me. It’s more than attraction. It’s not just that she’s gorgeous and smart and funny. And it’s more than the fact that she has no right being as cute as she is when she’s this embarrassed.
When the door clicks closed, I’m convinced I already have it bad for her.
FOUR
VADA
Ah,yes. Bathrooms. What I needed ever so badly yesterday afternoon, causing me to stumble into this bar, get drunk, and cuddle with a complete stranger while I wept on his shoulder.
I make my way through the ensuite with low expectations—I used the bar bathroom yesterday—but I’m pleasantly surprised. The double vanity has a waterfall concrete countertop and brass fixtures. The floor is a dark shade of gray concrete, warmed by a plush, cream rug next to the claw foot tub and glass shower in the corner. The backdrop to the tub is a large, black, hexagon-shaped paneled window that frames the view of the valley, identical to the bar deck below.
A vision of a bubble bath with warm vanilla-scented candles dances through my mind before I turn to face myself and the consequences of my actions in the mirror.
I clean up the remnants of mascara from under my eyes and wash up, running my fingers through my hair and fixing my backward dress.
When I emerge from the bathroom and bedroom, I’m met with Dunner in the small kitchen holding out a to-go cup of coffee and an everything bagel smothered in cream cheese and wrapped in a paper towel.
“I don’t know how you take your coffee so I just made it how I like it.”
When he looks at me like this—all tender and thoughtful—his eyes almost glow, and the sharp lines of his face soften. He is ridiculously handsome.
I hate him for it.
“You didn’t have to,” I admit, and he waves me off.
“Don’t want you to make a bad impression with the soon-to-be deceased,” he teases, then turns to the stovetop and cranks the gas flame. “If you can spare ten minutes, I can add bacon to that bagel.”
I glance at my watch. “I really don’t have time. I really need to go.”
He nods, busying himself in the kitchen, pulling eggs and bacon out of the refrigerator and slapping it on the counter. “How long is your meeting?”
“It depends,” I admit. Some clients are quick; others like to chat. It really depends on what they want for their funeral and how lonely they are.
“If you aren’t busy, you can swing through on your way out,” he suggests with pitifully hopeful eyes.
It’s wild how he does it. One second, he’s looking at me with a frown, reeking big-tough-guy and toxic masculinity, and then he’s just… soft.
