“Stupid hot accent,” I grumbled as I wrestled with the ridiculous faux patent leather pumpkin-shaped purse I’d impulse-bought off Amazon because, for whatever reason, I’d wanted to be festive. Wrenching open the zipper, I then scrounged for my keys. “Dumb pretentious ponytail.Pompousblazer with theabsurdelbow patches!”
EverypI spoke got extra emphasis as I hit the button on my key fob to unlock my doors.
Except nothing happened.
I blinked at the fob, and then at my car, searching the interior to make sure I had the right yellow Beetle. And I did. There was my oversized silk sunflower beaming at me from the built-in dashboard vase. Also, lying there unhelpfully in the front passenger seat, the jacket I’d failed to carry in with me because why think ahead? Doing so hadn’t exactly worked for me before, had it?
Not when I’d said yes to Peter flipping Winston that day he’d stopped to help me with the book drop so he could ask me out. Certainly not when I’d proposed going on a first date to a Halloween party dressed as rainbows and mother-flipping sunshine just so Dale could write me off and rub himself on some hussy with knee-high socks, a pencil in her updo, and a fake branch-manager badge with the asinine name “Paige Turner.” Some vapid, job-appropriating poser who probably had never read a line of Shakespeare in her life, didn’t know who Keats was, thought Hemingway was just a type of cat, and had no idea just how horrible of a no good, very bad day poor Alexander had actually had!
“Augh!” I roared at my car, giving the front tire a good hard kick, which, just like every other action I’d taken to try to find a man who wasn’t a walking pooper-scooper, did me absolutely no good.
Wasthatwhy I’d gotten the toe-curl tickles for a literal skeleton? Because while all the other eligible bachelors couldn’t be bothered to not make moves on everybody else in my vicinity,he’dactually opened a door for me?
And if we wanted to get technical about things, out of everyone, Reaper Mandidcall me.
Maybe it was onhisbingo card to, at some point, take me out the way he had the blond John Doe, but at least hedidstill call me.
The bar for dating standards. It really was in hell, wasn’t it? So doggone low that I had developed the hots for (and maybe was a little sad about not getting to have phone sex with) the. Grim.Reaper.
“Unbelievable,” I snarled as I shoved my apparently dead key into the lock to manually unlock the door. Except that wasn’t working, either. “Gotto be kidding me,” I added through chattering teeth, though it was anyone’s guess at this point if I was grousing about the car, Peter, or my possible impending demise.
With a sigh, I cast a glance around the parking lot, scanning for any of the other employees who’d yet to drive off.
Another frigid gale rushed by, sending brittle leaves scampering over the asphalt and the nearly vacant lot.
Cleo’s car was gone—something that, even given the circumstances, I had a hard time not being grateful for. I certainly didn’t need details about her and Peter, any more than she’d already divulged, which had given birth to enough frolicking brain goblins as it was—happyfriggingHalloween.
Ben’s truck wasn’t here, and neither was Peter’s Volvo—not that I would have resorted to textinghimeven if he had been working the night shift. At this point, I’d sooner hit up Michael frapping Myers for a ride.
Still, I dug my phone out. Because my options seemed to be calling Roadside Rescue or Uber. Which did I truly need?
I got my answer to that—at least partially—when my car started itself.
“What?”
Blinking, I backed away from the vehicle, which revved loudly as if someone was pumping the gas even though there wasn’t anyone in the driver’s seat—or any of the seats.
The car jolted forward, an action that sent me skittering in reverse.
Oh God. It was happening again. Except this time, instead of tumbling off a balcony or careening down an elevator shaft, I was about to be run down by my own sunflower-yellow Volkswagen Beetle.
Looping my head through the pumpkin purse’s crossbody strap, I bolted, making a break for the building, my keys to the front door gripped hard in one hand, my phone still clutched in the other.
If I went back into the building, I’d trigger the alarm, and the police would come. I could wait inside while—
With a gasp, I fumbled to a stop at the steps leading up to the main entrance.
Garbed in that same impeccable black suit now paired with a matching frock coat, a man stood front and center on the wide stairway, blue eyes blazing an icy stare, white-blond hair stirring in the wind.
The man, one who was supposed to be dead, one who I hadseendie, stared straight at me, the faintest of up-to-no-good smirks tugging at one corner of his mouth.
All of Reaper Man’s warnings came rushing back to me, making far more sense than they had before because he must have known this man would be back.
Blondie had already seen me, though, and with that smirk he was wearing, “engaging” with him was certainly the last thing I wanted to do.
Hide, Reaper Man had told me.
But what if there wasn’t anywheretohide?
