Page 14 of Remy

“Do not relay the story about you and the guy from the bar. That happened a freaking lifetime ago, Liv.”

My face falls. The game is lost.

It was a good night though.

The only instance I can recall where I didn’t imagine placing a plastic bag over my head and tying it tight around my throat when a random man dared to speak to me.

He’d been smooth, suave, and sinful. And those hands… Not that I have much of a base for comparison, but it was a five-star experience in my book.

Two thumbs up.

Highly recommended.

“Seriously, stop thinking about him.” Ivy claps my shoulder with a chuckle, jolting me from the memories. “You need to get out more.”

“No, thank you. Dealing with Hugo will be enough association with the living to last until the new year.”

“It’s February,” she drawls.

“Exactly.” I tug off my clothes shield, volley it into the trash, then backtrack toward the door. “Do you mind bringing Alexandra’s casket in while I talk to him? And get the cooling pads, too? Pretty please.”

“Sure. I’ll have everything ready for your return from battle.”

“You’re so kind.” I cringe, trying not to imagine how Hugo and I are about to butt heads.

Even though I don’t see him all that much these days due to my workload and the favorable need to lock myself in the mortuary, when our paths do cross it’s never short of discomforting.

How could it not be when I was the one who discovered the warm retort last time? Then proceeded to rat on him to my father.

I was also the one who adamantly argued he should be fired, right in front of his face, when my dad decided to let him off with a warning.

“If I’m not back in ten can you wheel Alexandra back into the cooler?” I pause at the threshold, anticipation wreaking havoc on my stomach.

“Of course.”

“You’re the most awesome person I know.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not the compliment you think it is when you only know four people.”

“It’s the thought that counts, right?” I close the door behind me and attempt to ignore the dread filling my gut.

It wasn’t easy growing up the only daughter of two proud funeral directors.

The soundtrack to my teenage years was a constant stream of tears and guttural sobs—none of them mine. I’d come home from class to our living space upstairs, and more often than not I’d have to skirt a crowd of mourning families.

Kids at school teased me. Boys didn’t want to date me. And in the few instances when they did, it was due to morbid curiosity not romantic interest.

It was only natural that I tapped the brakes on socializing at an early age. I cut and run from the whole stitch.

The only exceptions to my antisocial rules are my dad, Ivy, Allison, and my sweet elderly neighbor, Lesley.

I don’t even talk to grieving families anymore. That’s my father’s domain, and Ivy steps in like a dutiful protege when he’s not around.

I drag my feet along the hall, the heating from the main part of the two-story funeral home blistering in comparison to my usual space of solitary confinement.

I pass the staff break room and poke my head inside. It’s empty. No sign of the accused.

I continue past the cremation room, then further to the reception area where Allison sits behind her desk, typing into her keyboard, her face partially blocked from view by the large crystal vase beside her filled with white roses and carnations.

---