Page 1 of Remy

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OLIVIA

“You look beautiful, Skylar.” I lean closer, adding a faint layer of blush to her cheeks. “As requested, your makeup is understated but elegant. It’s some of my best work.”

Her mouth sits gently pressed, her eyelids closed as I work my magic.

I grab one of my custom lipsticks—a dark ruby shade that almost perfectly matches the hue Skylar wore to her wedding—then my favorite lip brush. I get busy painting the luscious color on her mouth as the soft hum of my mellow pop playlist carries from my cell on the stainless-steel counter on the other side of the room.

“Have I told you how much I love your hair?” I finish her lips and readjust the lock of strawberry blonde resting against her forehead, guiding it to frame her jaw. “It’s breathtaking. So uniquely pretty.”

I could’ve done something more with the thick strands. Maybe a braid like mine, or gentle curls, but subtle class was the goal and I won’t stray from the style brief.

“Almost done.” I reach for the foundation to add a final layer over her chin, making sure the bruising from her car accident is fully concealed. “The fluorescents aren’t doing us any favors.” Every blemish and shadow is painfully highlighted. “Thankfully, the event room is more forgiving.”

The warm down lights will help her glow once it’s her time to shine.

“There. Stunning.” I sit back, admiring my handiwork as a knock sounds at the door, the hinges squeaking softly as it opens.

Ivy’s stunning face greets me, her long dark hair curtaining her shoulders as her attention turns to Skylar. “She looks fabulous.”

“I know, right?” I raise my protective face shield, then lower the mask from over my mouth. “I think the family will be happy.”

She approaches, her voluptuous body gliding forward in her stylish pantsuit with my family business name—Pelosi Funeral Home—emblazoned over the left breast of her jacket.

She grabs the picture of Skylar from beside my makeup kit and glances from the image to the dead woman laid out on the metal gurney. “She looks peaceful. It’s all the family can ask for. Well done.”

“Thanks.” A tingle of pride unfurls in my chest.

Praise is hard to come by in my profession. Typically, those paying for the service have other things on their mind than complimenting their loved one’s mortician. But when those welcomed words do occasionally brush my ears, it sinks deep.

“Do you need any help?” Ivy places the photo back beside my makeup kit.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure? Aren’t you meant to be going out for your dad’s annual birthday dinner?”

Shit.

I rush to my feet, my stool rolling along the tiled floor behind me. “I forgot.” Well, not entirely. I remembered when I was at home getting ready for work. Then the birthday cake we had in the break room was another reminder… Until Skylar’s family decided to bump up the private viewing to tomorrow—Saturday—even though my dad usually finds a gentle approach to guide mourners away from weekend services for the sake of our sanity.

“Go.” Ivy jerks her head toward the hall. “I can return Skylar to the cool room. If I need help I’ll ask the new guy.”

“You really need to stop calling him that.” I hustle to the stainless-steel counter where I place my face shield before tugging off my blue surgical clothes shield to dump in the trash with my face mask. “Hugo has been here two months. I think that warrants you learning his name.”

She shrugs. “Two months too long if I’m being honest. He’s not the most empathetic of men. He wasn’t built for this job.”

I should ask why, what has he said or done this time to warrant her wrath, but that’s going to have to be a conversation for next week. “We’ll discuss this on Monday. And putting Skylar away will only take a minute.” I rush back to the gurney and shove my foot down hard on the wheel brakes. “Has Dad said anything about dinner tonight? Does he think I forgot?”

“He hasn’t said a word to me.” Ivy sidles up beside me, helping direct the heavy weight inside the room-sized cooler. “Where are you two going?”

“I don’t know.” I slide Skylar between Jamar Starr, an elderly man who passed from a stroke, and Richard Noack, who suffered a traumatic construction injury. “We haven’t discussed dinner at all.”

Fuck. I left his present at home.

I follow Ivy out of the refrigeration unit and close the door behind us. “I haven’t even mentally prepped for socializing.”

She chuckles. “You know most people don’t have to prep before stepping into society. You seriously need to get out more. Why don’t you meet up with me and Allison for a drink after you finish with your dad?”

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