Page 2 of Remy

I shoot her a playfully scathing scowl.

Her laughter increases, ending in a dramatic sigh. “Why God gave you such beauty paired with a phobia of people is beyond me.”

“It’s not a phobia.” I pull off my surgical gloves and place them in the trash as I pass. “I just don’t like people.”

“Nobody does. At least the rest of us can stand interaction enough to have a life outside of work, though. You live for the isolation of the mortuary and resent leaving it.”

“You know me so well. But I now also have to be back at work first thing tomorrow to prep for Skylar’s viewing. So I have a legitimate excuse for an early night.”

“Fine. I’ll try again next week.” She flicks off the light as she follows me into the hall, then the reception area where Allison sits behind her desk, peering up at me from her computer.

“Fri-yay.” She beams.

“Yay.” I sarcastically wave imaginary pom-poms, not feeling the vibe.

She snorts. So does Ivy.

“I’ve never met anyone besides you who doesn’t live to get away from work.” Allison taps at her keyboard. “It’s unnatural.”

I shrug. “I enjoy my job.”

“So do I,” Ivy drawls. “But I also like to get tipsy, flirt with outrageously attractive men, and get laid.”

I cringe, not wanting to give her a warning about appropriate workplace conversations in a house of mourning.

“Don’t worry.” Alison gives me a knowing look. “Nobody else is in the building apart from your dad. Hugo left two minutes ago.”

“Well, wasn’t it lovely of him to say goodbye,” Ivy mutters.

“Be nice.” I continue to my father’s office across the far side of the reception area to rap softly on his closed door before letting myself in. “Are you ready for your birthday dinner?” I smile sweetly, pretending I didn’t forget the special occasion. “What restaurant did you decide on?”

He stands behind his large oak desk, pausing in the middle of pulling on his suit jacket as his eyes snap to mine. “Damn it, Liv. I’m sorry. Dinner completely skipped my mind. I already made plans.”

Made plans? Is he joking?

I bite back the accumulating guilt. “But we go out for dinner on your birthday every year.”

We’ve done it for as long as I can remember. Since I was a toddler. Even when we were in the deep trenches of grief over Mom’s death. It’s a tradition. The only one we have.

“I guess I’ve been distracted.” He winces. “I didn’t even realize it was my birthday until Ivy brought out the cake this morning.”

He’s definitely not joking.

We’ve both thrown ourselves so deep into the trenches of work life that his birthday became nonexistent.

“It’s okay.” I fake a smile. “We can reschedule for tomorrow night. What do you have planned?”

“It’s nothing.” He adjusts the collar of his business shirt to sit perfectly atop his jacket. “Just a casual business meeting.”

After hours? On his birthday?

Is this a date? Like a date-date? The first non-business-related interaction with a female since Mom passed?

It’s about damn time. Seven years to be exact. Yet, the secrecy stings.

“I’m really sorry, fragolina. Can I get a rain check?” His use of the Italian childhood endearment only makes this situation worse. “I’m running late.”

He crosses the room and squeezes my arm, not waiting for a response before he glides past me and enters the reception area where Ivy remains chatting to Allison. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.” He waves us farewell and continues to the front door.

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