Page 22 of Make Me Yours

“Teddy had a giant schlong and no idea what to do with it. Two virgins hopping into bed together was a bad idea. You made a much smarter choice.”

I don’t know about that, but there’s no going back now.

There’s only forward and what I’m guessing is going to be a very uncomfortable conversation with the only man who’s ever seen me naked.

chapter 8

WEAVER

The visitationat the funeral home is packed. There’s barely enough room to stand sipping a drink without bumping against one of the other people here to mourn the late Rodger Tripp.

Though “mourn” is far too strong a word.

Rodger wasn’t a kind or good man. He was a bully. Most of his family members weren’t sad to see him go, let alone the rest of the town. These people are here because they’re afraidnotto be—the Tripps can make your life difficult if we feel you’ve disrespected our clan.

And I’m sure the free food and drink were a decent draw. Mark and the younger Tripps insisted on an open bar, and I didn’t fight them. No one wanted to face this night sober, least of all me.

I haven’t spoken to most of the Tripps in years. To say I’m not close with my family might be the understatement of the decade. I’ve forgotten several of their names, in fact, and had no idea my cousin Samantha now has four children or that Uncle Frederick’s hair implants finally took root after decades of fighting male pattern baldness.

Now, thanks to being corned by Frederick in line for the bar, I know more about hair plugs and his triumph over a bad case of gout than I ever hoped to.

Desperate for something to make the time pass more quickly, I do a lap of the room, fetching fresh drinks for the older set and holding the door for the caterer as he swaps out a keg. I help a tiny Tripp in a ridiculous little black suit clean cake off his shoe and fetch him another slice, settling him at one of the tables at the back of the room with half a dozen other sugar-smeared children.

I’m headed for the lobby afterwards, intending to hide in the bathroom and check my email for at least fifteen minutes, when Laura waylays me not far from the door.

“Oh, there you are, Weaver,” she says, her red-rimmed eyes shining in her puffy face. She pats her hairspray-sticky updo, though I haven’t seen her blond helmet shift a centimeter since I arrived. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We should talk. Before the funeral tomorrow.”

“Of course,” I say, about to suggest we step outside when she grips my arm with surprising strength and drags me to a couch not far from Rodger’s body.

At least she elected for a closed casket. If I’d had to stare down Rodger’s pale, doughy corpse while people sipped wine and snacked on canapés all around me, I doubt I would have lasted more than five minutes.

Still, I avert my eyes from the flower laden casket as I settle beside Laura. I don’t want to think about my brother lying dead a few feet away. I didn’t love him or respect him, but he has always been there, a fixture in my life. The fact that he’s gone, forever, is…jarring.

I blame that off-kilter feeling for the fact that I don’t see Laura’s question coming before she asks it.

“It would mean so much if you’d speak at the graveside service tomorrow. I know you told Mark you’d rather not, but could you possibly reconsider? For me? And for your brother?” She dabs at her cheeks as more tears stream from her pink eyes. “It would mean so much to him. To both of us.”

She looks like a miserable rabbit and is probably the only person in the room genuinely grieving. Rodger cheated on her and treated her like a prize as much as a person—a doll he’d trapped in his mansion of a dollhouse—but he’d denied her nothing. She was his most treasured possession.

I have no idea how she’s going to function without him, but that isn’t my problem. Her misery and grief aren’t my problem, either, but I’m not as coldhearted as most people assume. I feel for her…just not enough to spew a bunch of lies at my brother’s grave.

“I can’t, Laura,” I tell her gently, but firmly. “I didn’t know Rodger well enough to deliver a eulogy with the integrity it deserves.”

“But he was your brother!”

“A brother I’ve barely spoken to in over a decade,” I say, hurrying on before she can voice the protest I can see forming on her lips. “But I could do a short reading. I have a passage by Henry Scott Holland picked out that I think Rodger would have enjoyed. It was inspired by a sermon Holland gave at the funeral of King Edward VII.”

She sniffs again and dabs at the corners of her eyes. “Well, that sounds nice.” Her lips wobble into a smile. “He was our king, after all.”

I suppress a grimace and rest a hand on her slim shoulder. “I’ll speak to the minister now and see where to slot that into the service.”

Laura reaches out, gripping my wrist as I start to rise. “Please, Weaver. Give Mark a chance to prove he can fill hisfather’s shoes. I know he’s young and still has so much to learn, but he loves this town and so desperately wants to make his father proud.”

A part of me wants to remind her that Rodger is dead and no one will be making him feel pride—or anything else—ever again. Instead, I force patience into my tone as I remind her, “You knew Rodger better than anyone, Laura. Do you think he would have left me in charge if he wanted it to be any other way?”

Her brow furrows and her lips wobble again—down this time—but after a moment, she gives a slow, small shake of her head.

I rest a hand on her back. “I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t wait for me here. I’ll meet you at the cemetery.”

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