Page 25 of Mourner for Hire

“You know her son? Dominic? He told a few of us last night you’ve been embezzling money from that poor woman, and I’ve got to tell you… We accept all kinds of people in this town, but we don’t tolerate thieves.”

I draw in a breath, debating whether or not I should defend myself to her. Instead, I grit my teeth and ask, “How much do I owe you?”

“Ten dollars.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s what I charge to the locals and visitors alike. I don’t discriminate or try to take advantage of someone not familiar with the price of flowers in a small town.”

She smiles sweetly, but it makes me sick to my stomach.

I hand her a twenty. “Keep the change.” She needs it more than me.

I turn out of her booth and wander along, holding my bouquet of death until the fresh smell of cedar hits me, and a smile reaches my lips as I see a booth filled with birdhouses.

Large ones. Small ones. One is the shape of the Disney castle.

Another is shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

Another a lighthouse. Each one is so unique and beautiful.

The birdhouse shaped like a sun gives me pause.

It reminds me of the clock at Dominic’s bar.

The same clock that upended my entire night by transporting me into a memory.

It’s just a sun, and yet, I can hear my mom singing “You Are My Sunshine” while she ran a hand over my head, and I stared up at a ceiling covered in plastic glow-in-the-dark stars.

They say the first thing you forget about a person is the sound of their voice.

I thank God every day I never forgot hers.

I stare at the sun-shaped birdhouse a moment longer, considering buying it when I hear?—

“Why do you look so sad?”

I startle and jump, slamming the crown of my head against the hanging heart-shaped birdhouse, and cry out, “Shit!” My hands fly to my head. “Sorry, you scared me. I was just?—”

My voice freezes when I register his amber-colored eyes and deep frown.

The oddest type of fear trickles through me.

I’ve never experienced this feeling before, and truth be told, it probably has to do with the fact that my heart can’t not consider this man with empathy… no matter how much of an asshole he is.

“Is it because of your haircut? Is that why you look so sad?”

My jaw drops, and my hand flies to my hair. “I didn’t get my hair cut.”

“Hmm.”

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.”

“Text. ”

He flips me his card reader to type in my number. I do and turn it back. He stares at it a minute and then hits enter.

“You have my number now, Dominic. If you have a problem with me, maybe you should just let me know instead of telling people around town what an awful, embezzling bitch I am.”

“I didn’t say you were a bitch.”

“Oh, honey. You didn’t have to. I know you think I am that much is clear.”

“Don’t call me honey.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He tsks out an unamused laugh.

I step closer. “But also, embezzlement is the wrong word. If you really think what I do is a scam, the phrase you’re looking for is financial exploitation… and you and I both know that’s not what I’m doing.”

I tilt my chin, and something warm immediately drips from the crown of my head. I reach up, touch the spot, and when I pull my hand away, the sight of blood on my fingertips sends a woozy rush through my brain. My lips go cold.

“Look at that. Even your birdhouses hate me.”

At this point, I don’t care what he has to say. I turn and walk away without waiting for a response. I push through the dizziness and the rising nausea, focusing on just making it to the bathroom. I need to sit down, put my head between my knees, and not completely humiliate myself.

Then I’m heading back to the cottage—with my shell necklace—to strip wallpaper, repaint, and wipe another item off the whiteboard. One more step closer to getting the fuck out of here.