Page 49 of Mourner for Hire

“Thank you,” I say, passing through the doorway as he holds the door open for me. I take off running; the sand is a mixture of cold and warm under my feet. “I could have taken care of that.”

“But you didn’t,” he argues.

“Touché.” Sometimes, I allow myself to get so weighed down by the large projects that I ignore the small details. “Don’t get used to being right.”

I erupt in laughter and then squeal as my feet hit the cold Pacific Ocean water. Dominic is right behind me. I gasp as the ocean water hits my thighs.

Dominic laughs, ripping off his shirt and holding out his arms spread eagle and flops back, letting the Pacific envelop him.

I scream by association, then dive under the next wave about to break. It hits my skin like ice. Tiny needles of cold pierce the skin and make me gasp for air while also cleansing my spirit.

“God, it feels so good!” I shout, surfacing.

“No, it doesn’t. I can’t feel my anything.”

I laugh now. “Hurry. Scrub off the mud!”

“I’m trying!” he shouts back.

He drifts toward me… or maybe I drift toward him; I can’t be sure. But before I know it, my knee grazes his, and the current makes my body roll toward him. I straddle one of his legs inadvertently .

“Sorry,” I say, a whisper of an apology.

“It’s okay,” he responds, pushing his wet hair back, leaving droplets of water on the curl in the middle of his forehead.

I nod, trying to push away, but the current is stronger than I expected.

Or maybe the current is just Dominic. He grabs my waist, steadying me with a protective hand.

A slight glimmer of uncertainty runs through me.

He’s showing me the Dominic I met, but I don’t know how long the surrender will last before his guard is back up and he’s wishing I’d drift away with the current, never to return. “You good?”

I nod, my body now flush against his. I stare at his eyes. The honey color warms over my cold skin, sinking to my core. My gaze drops to his lips.

I want to kiss him.

I don’t want to want that. But I do.

My mind drifts to last night when his mouth claimed mine. It didn’t mean anything. It was only pent-up frustration between two sexually charged people, but it undid me. It reminded me of who he was once. Or, rather, who I thought he could be.

His gaze drops to my lips, letting me know the same thoughts are coursing through him right now, too. There’s also regret in his expression. Though, maybe it’s just restraint—at this point, I can’t tell. Still, his hands are on my waist, and my hands are now drifting down his chest.

“I’m sorry I kissed you yesterday,” I confess.

“I’m not.”

My hand slides from his chest to his neck, and my fingers tangle in his hair.

Our bodies drift together again. A deep rumbling in the sky makes us both look at the horizon. The light gray is turning an ominous shade of gray. Rain is inevitable. Whether it will come in moments or hours, we don’t know.

But then, just inches away, my teeth chatter, and I ask, “Hot tub? ”

We race back to the cottage. I change into a swimsuit, and he wears his boxers. I don’t protest.

As soon as the hot water from the cedar hot tub in the back hits my skin, I breathe in through my teeth. The change in temperature is cutting in the best way.

We both groan and sigh, flopping and sinking into the water until it drifts to our collarbones. We sit for a moment, maybe minutes, before he clears his throat.

“Are we good now?”

I smile, my face toward the moon. “Yeah, we’re good.”

“So, then… how are things with Connor?” he ventures, his tone forcefully cavalier, and it makes me grin.

“Dominic, are you jealous of Connor?”

“No,” he answers quickly. Too quickly. It makes me laugh. “I just… You guys went out, and I saw you kiss, and I?—”

I sigh, easing out of my laughter. “It was just the one time. And it was weeks ago. Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

I make a face and tilt my head. “It sounds like you care a little bit.”

He winces rather dramatically at my high pitch when I say little.

“I just think it’s funny you’re letting him trample over you.”

“Trample? Come on, it was one kiss. Plus, I eat boys like Connor for breakfast.” My defense is in overdrive.

His lips twitch, but he otherwise ignores me. “Yeah, well, I’ll tell you one thing. If you were mine, I’d let you have your own horse, not make you suffer on the back.”

My throat grows thick, and my cheeks flush. He saw. He knows. I think of how sore I was at the funeral. I think of the animosity he pinned on me and how Morgan witnessed it.

I wave an invisible white flag. “Connor has been nice to me, but I’m not interested. He’d be perfect for Morgan.”

“The mean chick at the funeral?”

I laugh. “She likes them soft. ”

“I can see why…”

His voice drifts, and his expression is playful and full of life and, oh my God, he’s an imprint of who I thought he was. I watch him tilt his head back on the cedar and close his eyes while the steam from the hot tub billows over his face and the last rays of sunlight make his face glow.

Instead of imagining all the ways I want him to touch me, I do the same, closing my eyes and tilting back on the hot tub.

“How long can you hold your breath?”

I cock an eye open. “Are you going to drown me or ask for a favor?”

A deep rumble of a laugh bellows out of him, and I open my eyes to catch his smile. The dimple. The swell of his bottom lip. The light in his eyes. The way his entire tough exterior softens. It will be my entire undoing.

“I was just curious.” He stares up at the star-studded sky that is quickly growing to an ominous gray. “When I was little, I used to have contests with my friends to see who could hold their breath the longest.”

The comment is endearing. It sketches innocence across his hard edges, reminding me of the human behind the shield of animosity. The heart behind the armor.

“Does that mean we’re friends now?”

His dark eyes sweep over my face and return to their spellbinding hold on mine. “We could be.”

I swallow, my gaze drifting to where the water meets his skin.

The wings of the butterfly tattooed on his chest, just barely visible.

He also has a coiled snake on his shoulder, surrounded by intricate patterns and designs, blending with his forearm tattoos.

Those are the ones I see all the time. The names.

The Roman numeral dates. The ship cutting through stormy water.

But my attention is drawn to the butterfly.

Perhaps it’s because I have one on my ribcage.

“I like your tattoo,” I venture.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Which one? ”

“All of them,” I admit. “But the butterfly one especially.”

He glances down at his chest.

“It’s very Harry Styles of you.”

His face twists at this, and I laugh. “What? He’s the OG butterfly chest tattoo.”

“Not a chance. I got this before I ever saw him prancing around in concert.”

“Harry does not prance!”

He stares at me knowingly. “Have you seen him in concert?”

“No. Have you?”

“Yes. I just said that and he’s brilliant. You’ve got to go.”

I don’t know why, but his answer surprises me. I run my teeth along my bottom lip, contemplating how to continue this conversation. “So when you saw he had a similar tattoo, were you just like, we are soul brothers?”

“Is that a thing?”

“It should be. Men need friendships just as much as women.”

He nods once. I can’t tell if he thinks my comment is stupid or if it is simply making him think.

“That’s Eli to me.”

I raise my eyes, beckoning him to continue. He doesn’t, being the man of few words that he is.

“How long have you been friends?”

“Since my dad died.” He remains expressionless. His answer is very matter-of-fact.

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-three,” he answers, rubbing a wet hand down his face and then flicking a water droplet over the cedar edge of the hot tub. “I was in the Air Force…” he pauses and looks at me, and I grin.

“I knew it.”

A quick raise of his eyebrows acknowledges my accurate assessment of him a year ago, but he continues.

“I couldn’t come home when he had his heart attack.

Dad assured me he’d be fine, but he wasn’t.

” He tries to shrug nonchalantly, but it’s weighted with grief both from years ago and in recent months.

“Eli’s dad was best friends with my dad.

And while I always loved Eli—he was like a big cousin to me—we also were just enough years apart that we couldn’t really be friends until adulthood.

When I came home, his whole family was rallying around me and my mom. The rest is history.”

I offer a soft smile. “I’m glad you have him.”

He nods once. I’m surprised by this drop of his guard, and he must be, too, because he changes the subject. “Why’d you get the butterfly tattoo?”

The skin on my ribcage where my butterfly sits warms and not because of the hot water slushing against it.

“It reminds me that it’s okay to change.

To evolve. To leave behind a life you were given for the one you actually want,” I tell him.

“Most people think it’s this reimagined nineties’ trend comeback, but really, it was my obsession with caterpillars when I was five.

I was shocked that these fuzzy little creepy-crawlers would eat a bunch of food and go to a dark room for two weeks and emerge victorious and beautiful and…

free.” I whisper the last word to hide the crack of my voice.

I’ve never remembered this moment until I said it out loud. But I can picture it so vividly. I’m sitting cross-legged in the grass with a caterpillar on my finger.

“I hope he stays fuzzy forever,” I said.

“No, honey, she’s going to turn into a beautiful butterfly!” Mom said.

“Really?”

“Yes, baby. Just like you. Just like me.”

I clear my throat against the memory.

Dominic’s gaze sweeps over every part of my face, every crevice, every pore, every line and wrinkle. Every flush of blood under my skin.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, why did you get yours?”

“Same reason.”

I raise my eyebrows.

He shrugs. “More or less.”