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“Are you asleep?” I ask suddenly, realizing that he’s humming along with me while I extoll the virtues of a television contestant.
“What? No!” he says. Instead of snappy, it’s fuzzy around the edges.
“You are practically snoring in my ear.”
Blake lets off a roof-rattling fake snore. “You’d know it if I were snoring in your ear.”
The assurance makes me laugh.
“Sorry,” he explains more, “I was up early this morning to run and it might be catching up to me. The spirit is willing and happy to talk to you all night, but my eyeballs seem to have other plans.”
“You run?” I ask, and then answer for myself, “of course, you do.”
“With my friend, I thought I mentioned him. Anyway, he kicked my ass this morning, told me to stop pussing out and call you.”
I don’t think Blake has been weak a single day in his life, but I like that he didn’t take calling me too casually. That someone like him had a bit of nerves about someone like me makes my insides fizzy.
“Well, just know that if you ever see me running, it’s because zombies are chasing me. And I will trip you. I don’t have to be the fastest, just not the slowest. I will drop you like the ‘Drop Dead’ moniker suggests.”
Oh, my God, did I just make a joke about that? Horror blooms, but when Blake chuckles, I realize that maybe it’s okay. Maybe I’m okay. A little.
“Duly noted,” Blake says. “But they wouldn’t find me much of a meal. Not enough brains.”
“I highly doubt that. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . and warn you . . . and try to scare you off . . . oh yeah, and warn you.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and then Blake speaks again, his voice low and intent. “I’m still willing to take my chances with you, Miss Walker.”
I smile at his persistence. “Well, I’m still not willing to go out on a date with you, Mr. Hale.”
I’m getting weaker by the second but fighting to be strong, for both our sakes. His, because if he possesses zero survival instinct or self-preservation, I’ll find it inside myself for him.
And me?
I don’t know if I can handle another loss, another reminder that I’m meant to be alone.
“We’ll see. But I really should go, I guess. My alarm goes off at five for another run. I’m hoping my five-mile time will better tomorrow because you had me tied up in knots today.”
The accusation gives me all sorts of naughty ideas about knots, mainly ones where I’m folded into one with my knees by my ears.
“Good night, Blake.” I give him his name easily this time after all we’ve shared.
“Good night, Zo,” he says, and I can hear it in his voice. He heard that use of his name. “Sleep well.”
Chapter 9
Blake
“Blake Hale, how can I help you today?” Recognizing the corporate home office number, I answer my phone in my most professional voice, fixing a smile on my face just to be safe. They say you can hear a smile in someone’s voice, after all.
“Hey, Blake, it’s Frederick. How’re you?”
Frederick is the vice-president over claims for the Everlife company and a guy I only speak with occasionally.
He’s nice enough, but there’s something about him that makes me envision a fat cat in a pinstriped suit checking a gold pocket watch when we talk. And I suspect that if you don’t dance to his tune, that niceness goes away very quickly.
“Good. How’re you? The wife and kids?” Small talk, an evil necessity. Honestly, at least two-thirds of my business is exactly that.
But Frederick is used to it and cuts through it quickly. “They’re fine. Look, I’m calling about a pain in my ass that I’m hoping you can help with.”
I don’t suggest that he should probably see a proctologist for that and should definitely not be oversharing with his agents this way, but I think it really hard, hoping he’ll get the message.
“Uh, okay?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, not wanting to hear this.
“I got a call from a client. She was going on and on about her husband dying and how we’re dragging our feet on paying out his policy.”
Relief flows through me as I realize he’s being dramatic and not calling to discuss his prostate. But Frederick isn’t usually the type to exaggerate, so how bad was this client?
“Actually, she was more droning on about the money than the husband. I don’t know, maybe she’s got a house she’s trying to save or something noble like that, but . . .” He lets the word fall off, telling me he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Neither do I. And I’m beginning to get a much clearer picture. Are there cases where people are desperate to cash in a policy to make some grand gesture to save a loved one’s legacy?
