Page 59 of Mourner for Hire
That’s all he says. A shrug and hum of cocky arrogance that screams,You could have fooled me.
I run my fingers through my hair, wondering if the humidity of the morning is making it frizzy and unruly or if Dominic is just an asshole on purpose.
“I thought you hated flowers,” he adds.
I straighten and clear my throat despite the pain on the top of my head. “Just roses.”
He glares at me.
“Dominic.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Buying a seashell necklace,” I answer weakly.
He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his shirt that says,Nice Hooters,above four baby owls sitting on four birdhouses. I laugh a little, staring at his chest.
“Nice,” I say. He continues to stare at me, jaw pulsing. “Um, I just came for the necklace, but I was looking at the flowers, and then the sweet lady asked if I wanted them, and I couldn’t say no, so?—”
“That’s a problem of yours, isn’t it? Not being able to say no.”
I tilt my head, almost too aggravated to notice the heat on the top of my head trickle to the side. Fuck, I’m probably bleeding. I ignore him and answer. “No, actually, I am very capable of saying no, but I have no problem supporting a local gardener while I have to live here. They’re for you, by the way.”
He tsks and stares at the sky. I push them against his chest. I don’t want flowers from Satan disguised as a pretty blonde.They belong with someone like Dominic—the man who told her I’m an embezzler.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to support another local business and buy this bookshelf-shaped birdhouse.” I yank it off the shelf and hold it close to my chest, my head still throbbing from the impact of hitting it on another birdhouse.
“Great. That’ll be fifty dollars,” he says.
“I can read price tags, butthead.”
“Butthead?”
“Do you prefer asshat? Dick wipe? Taint licker?”
He laughs, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. “I should charge you extra for that.”
I roll my eyes and spin around, looking for the owner of this booth. The sooner I pay, the sooner I can leave this interaction and go check out my head.
“It’s me, sweetheart,” he says, voice deep and syrupy sweet. “I’m the one you’re looking for.” He leans closer. “Fifty bucks, Vada.”
“Oh,” I offer weakly, reaching in my bag for my credit card and handing it to him. “You make birdhouses.”
“Yep,” he answers shortly.
“That’s cute,” I admit, though even I can hear the condescension in my voice.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Whatever. I like your birdhouses, Dominic.”
“Receipt?”
“Yes, please.”
It’s a work-related write-off. I chew on my bottom lip, intrigued by him. He’s rude, rough around the edges, broken, grieving, tatted, and has a death stare that could kill possums, but he also builds birdhouses, and I spent one night with him that almost certainly guarantees he has this soft side underneath all his asshole exterior.
“Text or email.”
