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But I hold my ground and do what I do best, handle my job the way Grandpa taught me. And right now, getting answers for Chad’s family is priority over some paperwork so Blake can get his passenger door fixed.
Holly suddenly holds her phone up, waving it around, and then presses it to her ear. “Oh, no! Is Olive okay?” She pauses for a dramatic moment to be sure we’re listening. “Of course, I can come home right now. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in a flash.” She takes the phone from her ear and puts it in her back pocket. “Sorry, I have to bail on our drinks tonight, Zoey. Olive isn’t feeling well, so I’m heading home to take care of her.”
It would all seem reasonable, if not convenient, except for one small, glaring detail. “Holly, your phone never rang and I could see your damn home screen.”
She shrugs, unconcerned. “Mother’s prerogative to decide to go home for snuggle times. You should consider some snuggle time yourself after you do Blake’s . . . paperwork.”
She does not mean the papers I have to fill out and file with the county secretary. That much is clear by the seductive way she says ‘paperwork’ even though it’s not a sexy word in the slightest. One more look passes between the two of us, and she damn near runs for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
As if there’s a single, solitary thing she would say no to.
Blake is smug as can be as he takes over the chair where Holly was sitting.
Why does everyone just help themselves to my space? This is a morgue, not a Starbucks.
Blake, though, seems to at least be willing to be polite about it. “I’m not trying to piss you off, but I really do need that paperwork done so I can get my car fixed.”
Okay . . . that’s a little bit of progress. “Fine. Suit yourself if you want to wait. This might take a while.”
Chapter 5
Blake
I hear the dare in her voice, see the challenge in her eyes as she glares at me in her desk chair. I’m not sure what prompts me to do it, but I give myself a good spin like Holly did a moment ago before they realized I’d entered the room.
When Zoey growls a bit, I know good and well exactly why I did it. I like setting her on edge because she makes me feel that way just by turning oxygen into carbon dioxide. Turnabout only seems fair.
The tension works through her, from her surgical cap-covered hair to her bootie-covered feet, her shoulders bunched up, her jaw tight, and her back ramrod straight. In contrast, I slouch comfortably in her chair with my head thrown back against the headrest and give her a lazy smile that clearly says, challenge accepted.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask even though I can see exactly what she’s doing, gross and disgusting as it may be. I want to keep looking at Zoey, especially when I can look my fill because she’s giving me zero fucks, but my stomach revolts. Not at her, but at the way her gloved hands disappear into the body on her table and reappear. I’m trying my hardest to hold onto my man card, but I can feel my palms going clammy where I grip the hand rests.
This isn’t a George Romero movie or something. There are no gushing geysers of claret or ropy strings of internal organs being yanked out. This is real, and while it’s not as bloody, ironically, that somehow makes it all the more disturbing.
And Zoey’s utterly comfortable with it. “Working.”
She shows no interest in continuing a conversation, and in fact, doesn’t even look up—how is she doing that without hurling all over the place? —but I’m not easily swayed and am definitely no quitter. Especially when I think the payoff will be worth it. And something tells me Zoey Walker is worth a hell of a lot more than a little one-sided conversational work.
So I keep at it.
“County Coroner. That’s an unusual field of work. How’d you get into it?” I ask.
Her concentration stays on the man in front of her, and I can’t help but feel a bit of jealousy. I know he’s dead and all, but damn, I’d like her attention on me. I think feeling the full impact of Zoey’s focus would feel like the sun coming out from behind a storm cloud and shining down on me. Or at least, not having my lunch threatening to make a repeat appearance. I guess that’s my new bar of excellence.
“My grandpa was the coroner before me. I worked with him, took over when he passed.” Her answer is clipped and robotic, and I realize belatedly that she probably gets asked that regularly, and now I sound like some misogynistic neckbeard when I was just trying to make conversation.
