Page 3 of Mourner for Hire

He almost smiles as he leans back, hooking his fingers under the bar. The action makes his forearms flex under his tattoos, and I pretend I’m not looking. Then he taps the bar top without another word and disappears into the back.

I casually sip my beer and pull my e-reader out of my purse, uninterested in making any friends.

This is a work trip. One night. In and out.

A simple pre-death meeting. I’m here for work.

My only tie to this town is the city written on my birth certificate.

I never came back. Dad would have never allowed it, and by the time I was old enough to make my own decisions, I didn’t care to.

I make it to chapter two as he slides the burger in front of me.

“Headed to a funeral?” he asks, his gaze unapologetically sweeping over my black dress. It’s sleeveless and cut just below my knee—it screams church funeral.

I smile and answer, “Work,” instead of telling him I’m coming from a funeral.

He cocks an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh,” I say in response to his expression .

“Let me guess. Consultant for a construction company that remodels bathrooms?”

“That’s very specific.”

“This town is stuck in the seventies. It’s high time everyone renovates their bathrooms. My mom has been asking me to remodel her bathroom for years.” He huffs out a laugh.

“Why haven’t you?”

He shrugs. “Time, I guess.”

“You know time isn’t replenishable. People often wish they can flip the hourglass over, but you can’t.”

Sadness is laced in his smile. “Yeah, you got me there. Are you saying I should spend more time with my mom? Because I’ll have you know I am her favorite only child.”

“No, I’m saying you should remodel her bathroom,” I respond, and he laughs. “It’s funny. I used to remodel houses.” I don’t know why I tell him this. “It was my first failed business attempt, so I must not be very good.”

“Really? What makes you think you aren’t any good?”

“Well,” I begin, feeling the buzz of the beer affect my brain almost immediately.

My charm bracelet jingles as I rotate the plate in front of me and plop a fry in my mouth.

“I went to college for interior design, and I just couldn’t get a job that paid well enough to afford rent downtown so I thought, I’ll be the next Martha Stewart and create my own brand.

It turns out I’m not quite as savvy as Martha. ”

“What was it called?”

Even though I’m the one bringing up the subject, I’m somewhat surprised he asks.

“Chantilly Lace.”

“I like it.”

“Thanks.” I take another sip of beer.

“Why do you think it failed?”

His immediate interest in me is genuine but also unexpected.

I sigh. “I don’t do gut jobs. Not everything should be renovated when it can be beautifully restored. Not everyone likes that. It takes time. Sometimes, the changes aren’t as drastic.”

He smirks. “My mom would like you.”

I huff out a laugh. “That’s a good line.”

I flip open the ketchup lid.

“Wait.” He stops me, and I freeze. “Try it without the ketchup.”

“I love ketchup.”

“Just trust me.”

“About condiments? They are literally my obsession. You should see my refrigerator. And, sir, respectfully, I’ve known you fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty-three.”

“Whatever.”

“Try it.”

“You could say please.”

“I could. I won’t, though.”

I glare at him, inhale deeply, and take a bite of the burger. Flavor explodes in my mouth. Smoky. Spicy. Sweet. The perfect amount of char. The juice from the burger runs down my fingers, and I’m certain this man will never fall in love with me. I can’t even eat a burger like an adult.

He waits, watching me with an expression that is damn near unreadable.

“It’s really good,” I admit.

He nods once. “Mom’s recipe.”

I lick my lips. “I like her.”

“You would.”

That’s all he says as he turns around. He busies himself at the bar, serving up a few more beers, making a couple of spicy margaritas, and three bloody marys topped with celery, bacon, and two jalapeno poppers. But he delivers them to the patrons, calling them Billie and Lucifer.

“That looks like a whole ass meal,” I comment. I don’t know why. I’m just bored and anxious to actually reach my next location. I swipe my phone to check the traffic. Still not moving.

Dunner places a jalapeno popper on my plate. “Try it.”

I narrow my eyes, but nevertheless take the jalapeno popper between my thumb and index finger. “I’m starting to feel like a food critic.”

He shrugs, not smiling. “We don’t get a lot of new faces around here. I like getting outside opinions.”

I take a bite and chew intently. Sweet, cheesy, spicy, smoky—each flavor delectable on my tongue. “My God, these are delicious. I want to eat seventeen of them.”

“That’s specific.” He’s almost monotone.

I moan a little. “Is this your mom’s recipe, too?”

“No, it’s mine.” He restrains a smile and I don’t miss the way his gaze falls to my mouth as I lick the remnants of flavor off my fingertips.

I can’t be entirely sure, but a slight blush sweeps over his cheekbones. It shouldn’t be so endearing that he makes the perfect jalapeno popper, but it is. They’re the perfect blend of spicy and sweet.

“Maple syrup?”

“Brown sugar,” he corrects.

“I love them. They’re delicious,” I say, nodding, then lean forward on the bar. “So, tell me: do I stick out like a sore thumb? Since you said you don’t get many new faces around here?”

“Yep,” he answers with zero hesitation.

I scoff out a laugh. “Really, you know everyone else in this bar?”

He leans closer and points at the end. “That’s Marylou and Bernie Ethercott—he was my fifth-grade teacher, and she was the nurse at the doctor’s office. She’s also an excellent baker… almost as good as my mom.”

Normally, a shot of red flag alarm bells would go off in my mind—BEWARE! MAMA’S BOY! RUN! WE DON’T COMPETE WITH MOTHERS! But for some inexplicable reason, I find this anecdote more endearing than worrisome.

“That over there is Jonesy,” he continues.

“We played football together in high school. Janice and Ella were my neighbors growing up. And that guy playing pool with them is Harold Green. He’s probably the founder of this town.

” He points at the man who seems to be well into his nineties as he pockets the eight ball. “Or he’s a ghost. We can’t be sure.”

“I will forget all of this information, I hope you know, but I find it sweet.” Then I lean into the bar top. “But tell me, do I look familiar at all?”

His brow twists, and his pupils shrink then dilate as he studies me.

“I was born here.”

“No shit.” He leans back and crosses his arms in disbelief.

“I left in the middle of second grade when my mom died. I loved my teacher with her frizzy, red hair. She reminded me of Ms. Frizzle from The Magic School Bus .”

She’s one of my few memories from childhood, and I hope no one ever underestimates the impact of teachers on little lives.

He sort of laughs. “Mrs. Nettles.”

I lean on my elbows. “Yeah! Did you have her, too, or…?”

“No, I had Ms. Hill.”

I nod, more in acknowledgment. I don’t remember the other second-grade teachers.

“Sorry, I don’t remember you,” he says.

“It was a long time ago.” I shrug and grab my beer. “Maybe you will now.”

The comment wasn’t intentionally flirtatious, but it came out that way, and I refuse to take it back. Because this guy—this man with broad shoulders and a dog’s name—is rather charming when the brunette from out of town makes him blush.

“So why are you here?” he asks, bracing the bar on the other side and leaning closer .

“The traffic,” I play coy. Not everyone responds kindly when I tell them what I do.

“Right. But why were you headed back to town?”

He says back like I visit frequently, but I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t.

“Oh, are you trying to scare me off?”

“I’m curious.” He crosses his arms. “You said business, but unless you’re a fisherman…”

I let his voice trail and drum my fingernails over the bar top, unsure if I want to tell him the truth.

His honey-colored eyes stay fixed on me. They’re mesmerizing to say the least.

“Fine. I get hired to attend funerals,” I answer.

“By who?”

“The dead.”

A laugh snorts through his nose as he keels over in laughter. I’m not surprised. This is one of two responses I get: laughter or horrification.

“Yep.” I press my lips together.

His laughter settles, and he manages to say, “So, you talk to ghosts?”

I rear back. “What? No. No, no, no. The deceased hire me before they die,” I explain. “I don’t talk to ghosts. I don’t believe in them.”

His teeth run along his bottom lip as he processes what I’m saying. “I don’t get it.”

“Some people are lonely and just want someone to be there. Some people have very specific stories they want to be told at their service, and I do that. Some want me to weep. Some want me to laugh—weird kink if you ask me, but it happens. And others will ask me to wear a widow veil and stand mysteriously behind a tree.” I scrunch my nose and smile. “Drama seekers—I love it.”

He shakes his head, and I feel ridiculously appreciative of the smile on his face .

“Why would anyone want this? Why not settle everything before they die?”

“People can be dramatic.” I laugh. “Why not guarantee that you can haunt someone long after you’re gone?”

“Is that what they tell you?” His amused gaze stays fixed on me.

“I can make assumptions, but I don’t really ask questions. I just ask for what they want. Fulfill the role and know they’re sleeping easy because their funeral went exactly how they wanted.”

His eyes turn to slits, and he presses his lips together, a cross between disbelief and shock.

“Have you ever thought about what your funeral would be like? Who would be there? Who wouldn’t?”

“No,” he answers quickly. “That’s morbid.”

“Oh.” My mind drifts to the morbidity of it. “I never thought of it that way. I guess I’m a little bit morbid because I wonder all the time. What friends from my childhood would show up? Would my cousins in Virginia come? Would my former co-workers?” I shrug.