Page 27 of Mourner for Hire

TWENTY-TWO

VADA

“Sorry about all of that. We really aren’t vultures,” Connor tells me as we reach the cottage.

The lines around his douchebaggery are dissipating, and I wonder if my first impression of him wasn’t accurate.

“Hmmm,” I muse aloud. “It’s fine.”

He starts doing that thing where you snap and hit one palm with the other fist. He’s unnecessarily nervous, so I offer a bright smile.

“Is that why you left without a goodbye last night?”

“Not one for Irish exits, are you?” I tease, and he laughs, a shy and endearing laugh. He’s quite adorable. Especially in that California surfer meets Oregon hipster kind of way. He’s all dimples and manners and just… soft. Not at all my type. I prefer edges.

“I would have walked you home,” he offers, and I nod.

“That would have been very kind of you, but I—” I start to make an excuse but choose honesty. “I was a little peopled out, and everyone was having a good time, and I just didn’t want to upset anyone more than I already had. I’m not trying to be easy prey. Just do my job, you know?”

His blue eyes glisten in the height of the sun as he thinks about what I just said .

“Is it really just a job to you?” he asks.

I nod.

“How?”

“How is it just a job? Or how is it my job?” I ask because I know how nuanced my profession is.

“Like, how is it your job? Isn’t it weird to deal with dead people all the time?”

“I don’t deal with dead people,” I answer honestly.

When he shoots me a questioning look, I explain further.

“I deal with living people. I meet them when they are very much alive, months—sometimes even years—before they pass. They tell me their wishes. They fill out a form. We both sign it. There are many aspects of end-of-life care. Doctors, hospice, coroners, medical examiners, funeral directors, will executors…” I shrug.

“Mine is just different and lesser-known but no less important.”

“Hmmm…” He shoves his hands in his pockets and dips his Birkenstock in the sand by the front walkway.

“I’m fulfilling her wishes. If it were me, I wouldn’t be here doing…

all of this,” I confess, waving a hand in the air.

“Trust me. I’ve never had a family member react so viscerally to me, and I truly wish Dominic knew my intention.

I’m handling this whole situation with care, whether he believes me or not. ”

Connor’s lips quirk into a slight smile. “I think he knows this is for the best even if he has a weird way of showing it.”

I tense. “He has a right to hate me. I plan on letting him.”

He laughs at this, and I reach for the door, ready to be done with this conversation.

Connor is sweet, truly. He reeks of nice guy in the best way…

you know, minus the socks. But I have no interest in making friends here even if the people are interested in me.

Though, he could just be the polite veterinarian in the small town looking for a lady to fancy, and maybe a part of me wouldn’t mind taking advantage of the company.

This job is lonelier than any I’ve done before.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t hate you.” He flashes a million-dollar grin, and I smile back.

“Thanks, Connor. Have a good day.” I turn to go inside.

“Hey, if you want to grab dinner sometime, I’d love to take you out. Give you a break from living in a dead lady’s house.” He chuckles to himself.

I nod. “Yeah, sure. Maybe another time, though. My head really hurts.” I gesture to the glued scab on the top of my head, milking my minor injury for all its worth.

“Right. Call me if you start vomiting or lose track of time or experience any other concussion symptoms,” he says, slipping me his vet hospital card. His personal number is clearly scrawled on the back.

“I will.” But I won’t. I barely hit my head. Yes, I bled a lot and got rather faint, but this entire thing turned into a situation. One that has ensured I won’t show my face in town for at least a few days.

I enter the cottage and flop on the couch—annoyed, tired, and anxious to take all of those emotions out on this renovation.

I pull open my phone and check for the nearest hardware store. Once I find it, there’s a knock at the door. I trudge over and swing it open.

“Hey! You left the market early!” Annabelle exclaims.

“Thank you for knocking,” I mutter.

“Listen. I’m not half-bad about boundaries, but I will continue to check in to make sure everything is… fine.” She glances around the cottage. “Is everything fine?”

I look behind me to see if another ghost appeared.

“Yes,” I answer timidly. “Why?”

“I just heard you left with Connor, and I didn’t know if he was here or not or why you would even entertain him.”

“I’m not entertaining him. He was just being polite and walking me home.”

She crosses her arms. “I never liked him much, just so you know.”

“Okay,” I answer plainly because I don’t give a damn. When she stares at me, expecting an argument like I’m a petulant teenager, I add, “I’m not interested in Connor.”

“You sure? Because he seems very interested in you. I heard Dominic and Eli discussing it after you left.”

I blow out a breath. “You really shouldn’t eavesdrop on conversations with your son and his best friend. You might hear something you don’t want to hear. You know, maybe even something incriminating, like how he plans to kill me while I’m living in your house.”

She laughs. “Yeah, right.”

“You sure? He’s a very hateful man. Threatens me constantly. Makes me bleed.”

Annabelle just rolls her eyes.

“Anyway, I have a lot to do.” I hope she takes the hint. I work better alone.

Her gaze darts past my shoulder. I follow it and see she’s looking at the disaster of a cottage. Bare unfinished wood floors. Cabinets falling off their hinges.

“Yes, exactly,” I answer her unspoken comment. “I have a lot to do today.”

Annabelle disappears in a reluctant poof, and I’m off to the hardware store.

After using the trusty and mysterious credit card Annabelle left me to buy a wallpaper remover and a five-gallon bucket of white interior paint and supplies, I head back to the cottage and change into a T-shirt and shorts.

I spend the next several hours checking for nails in the floor to remove, and then steaming and removing the yellowed floral wallpaper until my hands are sore and my stomach is growling. I ignore my hunger pangs while I clean the wall and prep it for paint.

One coat down, and my stomach riots again.

I stare at the drying paint, and finally giving in to hunger, I open my phone and flop back on the denim couch, scrolling the restaurants that will deliver.

It’s five in the evening, and I’m hungry for both breakfast and dinner.

I could go for a stack of pancakes, an omelet, teriyaki, and pulled pork all at the same time.

I’m that hungry. I start ordering it all. I have a lot of work ahead of me—might as well stock up.

Five minutes later, I’ve completed all four orders, and each has an estimated delivery time of thirty to forty-five minutes. So when there’s a knock on the door, I assume it’s Annabelle.

I stomp over as if my feet are made of lead and swing the door open. “Would you please haunt someone else for a minute?—”

My breathing stops as I see Dominic standing on the welcome mat, holding a white paper bag. The line between his brows deepens.

“Ungrateful. Of course. Very fitting,” he says, holding out the bag.

I stare at it then back at him. “What is it? Dog shit? Were you planning on lighting it on fire and running away?”

“No, sweetheart. I am… trying to be… nice.”

The way he drags out the sentence confirms he is, indeed, trying.

“Okay.”

When I still don’t take the bag, he reaches out and takes my hand and places it on the bag.

“For you,” he says like I’m stupid. “It’s two homemade Pop-Tart-like pastries and three Maple Syrup Chocolate Chunk cookies.”

“For me?” I repeat as I cautiously open the bag and peer inside.

“They’re gluten-free.”

“I’m not gluten-free,” I retort, and he flares his nostrils.

“Jesus, just take them and say thank you.”

“Thank you. You didn’t poison them?” I ask and then inhale deeply. The rich aroma is absolutely divine. “Oh my God, these smell so good.”

“Tasha is an excellent baker,” he agrees. “She had leftovers at the end of the market. I thought I’d drop them off to be…”

His voice trails, and I venture, “…nice?”

“Right.”

I take another whiff like it’s aromatherapy. “I want to bathe in these.”

“That’s weird.”

“I want a steam room dedicated to this scent at the spa.”

He cocks an eyebrow, and I hold a cookie out to him.

“Prove it won’t poison me,” I demand.

“No.”

“Yes.” I shove it closer to his stupid, gorgeous face.

He takes a bite.

I do the same, letting the richness of flavors melt on my tongue. “Holy shit. These are what sugary wet dreams are made of.”

He gives me a death stare for three seconds, and then his smile makes its grand appearance.

I barely finish chewing before I take a second bite.

My belly warms at the sight of his dimples—it’s very obnoxious that a basic human reflex unsteadies my core like this, but alas, I am still attracted to men.

And men, as of late, means Dominic.

Shit. I don’t think I’ve admitted that to myself yet.

It makes sense, really. I tripped head over heels for him all those months ago, and now, here I am, adjusting to our awkward situation, his newfound hatred for me, and being haunted by his mother’s ghost. My attraction for him just took the backseat.

I stare at the lines of his face, the curl of his lashes, and the swell of his lips that kissed me once. And now, I’m the lame girl with this unprompted crush on someone who despises me.

Cool, cool. This is fine.

He’s still staring at me, though he’s lost his smile, and I realize neither of us has spoken since the aforementioned wet dream. I’m surprised he hasn’t walked away.

“Do you want one?” I ask, licking crumbs off my bottom lip.

He squints and shakes his head. He puts his hands on his hips and looks out at the ocean, then rubs his forehead before returning his gaze to me. “So, are we good?”

“I am not the one with the problem.”

He scoffs. “Actually, you kind of are. You are the whole entire problem.”

“Oh, God, Dominic. Did someone pay you to make up with me? Was it Marylou? Do you want to join in on the quest to fulfill your mother’s wishes and fix up this shack?” I take a step back and sweep my arm in the air, indicating his mother’s wishes are just beyond the threshold.

He huffs, hesitating. “It’s not a shack.”

I sigh, softening my tone. “I’m doing my best to stay out of your way. I’m sorry I’m… here, existing. But I promise it will be beautiful.”

There’s a flash of grief in his eyes. This unresolved anguish that will never go away because he lost someone important to him.

Someone you can never replace, no matter how strong your village is.

No matter how tight-knit your community is.

There is sorrow you can rest in, but there is also grief you rage with.

Losing a parent is both.

I open my mouth to spew out some bullshit about grief and support, but Dominic beats me to the punch.

“Don’t change things too much, okay?”

Well, that was not at all what I was expecting him to say. “Especially the wallpaper. The roses, she—” he clears his throat to hide his emotion. “It was her favorite part of the place.”

I nod. “I’ll do my best. It’s an important place to you, too,” I realize, speaking the words out loud. “It’s going to be beautiful, and I am going to keep the charm. Trust me.”

“You don’t have to be here long, you know,” he says, his tone almost accusatory.

I tilt my chin up, beckoning him to tell me more.

“If you would just stop gallivanting around town?—”

“Gallivanting? Jesus?—”

“—you could get a lot more of the work done faster. ”

“Have you ever renovated anything?”

“Don’t be dense. I build birdhouses for fun.”

I cackle.

“Oh, fuck off,” he mutters, the vein in his neck bulging. He’s growing visibly irritated with me. “And all the furniture in the bar.”

“Oh,” I hum. While, yes, that’s impressive, it isn’t the same as renovating. “Well, good job. But I can’t guarantee it won’t take a couple of months.”

“Just don’t change it, okay?”

“Honey, you know that’s not entirely reasonable. Plus, I have to do this on top of ‘finding it.’ Whatever the hell that means. Give me a break. Five minutes ago, I was concerned you were poisoning me.”

He steps closer. “Oh, sweetheart, if I were going to get rid of you, I wouldn’t poison you. It’s way too obvious.”

I shake my head. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me honey.”

I pause, resting against the doorway. “How would you do it, then?”

I watch his Adam’s apple disappear in his throat. Then he freezes, his gaze dragging along the length of me. I think of how much he can’t stand me. I think of all the ways he could kill me. I think of all the ways I’d let him try.

He steps closer, running a finger under my chin. I don’t pull back.

“Sweetheart, you’ll never see it coming.” The smile he leaves me with draws heat straight to my core.

He turns to walk away, and I can’t help but smile at the foolery. He keeps hollering as he walks down the path.

“Get your shit done, Vada. Then get out of town.”

I roll my eyes and slam the door, totally shaking in my boots.

Fucking asshole. Little does he know I have a whiteboard that says just that.