Page 44 of Mourner for Hire

THIRTY-SIX

VADA

All because of some moldy fucking wallpaper.

I let out a deep groan of frustration and slam the front door shut. As I spin around, my arm catches on the nail in the damn door.

“Great. Now I need a tetanus shot.”

This town is really trying to kill me. First, the head injury at the market, and now this. I slap my hand over the gash before I see any blood and hurry to the kitchen to wrap it with paper towels and medical tape from the cupboard.

I’ll go to the clinic for a shot tomorrow. Or I’ll die of tetanus. I haven’t decided yet.

Washing my bloody hand while keeping my focus outside, my stomach growls. An odd response to what usually happens when I see blood, but I’m going to consider this an improvement.

Then I remember the food.

I flip open the lid, and the smell makes the pangs in my stomach growl with more ferocity.

I devour three pieces of fried halibut and then realize I’m still wearing his shirt…

nor did I put on any underwear. The smell of him is overwhelming and frustrating in a I-wish-I-could-slam-his-face-through-a-wall way .

So frustrated, in fact, there’s no way to truly enjoy all the goodness inside this brown takeout box.

I package it back up and put it in the fridge, deciding that an early night might be the better option for this evening. I put on some plain cotton underwear and dive under the covers, still in Dominic’s shirt.

I lie awake for an hour before trying to get some relief that will allow me to sleep. I’m annoyed, restless, and, if I’m honest, sexually frustrated.

I curse Dominic’s name with a reluctant sigh, I get up and dig through my suitcase to find my vibrator. It’s nowhere to be seen.

“Shoot. Did I forget it?” I mutter to myself while knowing full-well I didn’t bring it. Why would I when I had the ghost of Annabelle breathing down my neck, dragging me here, kicking and screaming? Figuratively, of course.

Now that I’m somewhat acclimated to this town and she’s giving me plenty of space, my own needs are starting to resurface. Not to mention her son is being a royal pain in my ass with his arrogant way about him, his hot and cold demeanor, and his beautiful eyes.

Dammit.

I don’t want to still be attracted to him. He’s an ass. He hates me. I hate him. We’ve been tricked into these circumstances by his dead mother, and yet, when I think of him, I feel the need to squeeze my legs together. It’s quite obnoxious, truly.

I contemplate buying a vibrator, but I soon remember the one Dominic tossed in my cart the other week like a party favor. When I arrived home, I unpacked my groceries, stared at the black and purple packaging, and then shoved it in the junk drawer.

I pad out of the room and into the kitchen and start digging through the drawer like a ferret that has gone too long without sex.

The packaging is still intact and surrounded only by pencils, sticky notes, and random keychains.

A relief, yes, but I can’t help but stare at the package with hesitation.

I can’t stop thinking about Dominic, and I know if I use this, he’s the only person who will be going across my mind.

Desire overrides my hesitation, and I rip the box open, find the charger, and plug it in next to the couch, just as there’s a knock on the door.

I yelp—my heart hammering as I stare at the door.

There’s another knock.

I shove the vibrator in the couch cushion out of sight and stomp over to the door, swinging it open to find?—

“Annabelle?”

“What? I knocked.” She shrugs.

I drag a hand down my face, and all of my desire leaves my body like a well-timed exorcism.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

She studies me, eyes narrowed as she taps her chin. “How’s your memory?”

“My memory?” My eyebrows shoot up.

“Anything coming back to you?”

I think of the night in Dominic’s bar when I first came here. I think of the memory of the red wagon. I think of familiar smiles around town and running into Mrs. Nettles at the Farmers Market. But it’s all flashes of memories—nothing substantial.

And nothing for the last two weeks.

I shake my head. “Maybe a couple of things at the beach or a weird behavior chart we had in kindergarten class, but…” my voice trails. “Annabelle, I’m okay not remembering. I don’t know any different.”

She sighs. “Keep looking, okay?”

I give an exhausted shake of my head. “I’m renovating your cottage and trying to avoid your son; I don’t have time to look anywhere, Annabelle.”

“Fine. Keep renovating,” she says, her smile knowing as if that’s exactly what she’d like me to do. “Have a good night.”

But just as she turns to leave, she says, “Nice shirt.”