Page 14 of Kiss and Make Love

She wanted him. Now. And she knew he wanted her, too.

The next week, Spencer was at her practicum placement, setting the features of a deceased 89-year-old woman named Loretta. Thankfully, her death was due to natural causes, so the embalming process was straightforward. She placed cotton in the mouth to help give the corpse a more natural appearance. Llewellyn grabbed the modesty cloths to cover her genitals, out of respect, and flexed the limbs to allow the tension to leave the body.

Her favourite part of the preparation process was washing the deceased. Something about it gave her an overwhelming feeling of peace. Taking care of a person in such a vulnerable state and being responsible for their last presentation to the world was an honour. She found the ritual both relaxing and reverent.

Well, usually.

Tonight, Llewellyn was in rare form.

The funeral home’s senior embalmer and co-director, Mr. Hewitt, was upstairs meeting with Ms. Channing, the other co-director, and Spencer was attempting to keep Llewellyn occupied and on task.

“I need you to prep the tools and mix the fluid. Can you do that?” she asked, perhaps with a little too much snark.

“Yes, Spencer. Give me fifteen minutes.”

She puffed—loudly—and rubbed her temples. “Thank you.” It took genuine effort to be more pleasant.

He was supposed to prepare everything prior to this part of the preparation process, but he got sidetracked doing God knows what. The scent of fryer oil lingered on his person, so she had a pretty good idea of what he had been up to.

Spencer exited the embalming room, entered the cozy staff area, and grabbed her phone. If she didn’t calm down soon, there was no telling how hard she would snap. Llewellyn could breathe wrong, and she mightaccidentallystab him with a scalpel.

Her mind drifted to Brett. Hearing from him would calm her down, but she wasn’t about to call or text him in the middle of a work day. Instead, she plopped down on the well-worn brown loveseat, opened her email, and read through their first few emails to each other.

Slowly, her annoyance dissipated. She could handle Llewellyn for a few more hours. Going over a list in her head, she made mental notes of what she had left to do. Place the arterial tubes and drain tube. Adjust the embalming machine to regulate pressure and flow. Massage the body for better drainage. She sighed. A long day lay ahead if Llewellyn didn’t pull his weight.

Of course, she’d done this many times before. It was second nature. But lists were always a good way to organize and calm her mind. Llewellyn would have to take care of removing the tubes, tying off the artery and vein, and suturing the incision. He should treat the cavity as well, but last time Llewellyn dropped the trocar and stepped on it. Somehow, it landed pointing straight up, so it embedded in his foot enough to cause a scene. Why Llewellyn was barefoot in the embalming room was beyond her. He didn’t need stitches, but there was enough blood on the floor to make Llewellyn pass out.

Oh yeah. He passed out at the sight of blood. Only his own blood, not other people’s. Otherwise, thisreallywould be the wrong profession for him. Although she already thought it was.

Perhaps the director could oversee him. Then, she could wash Loretta’s body again, comb her hair, and apply cream to prevent her skin from dehydrating.

A loud crash followed by a high-pitched yelp sounded from behind the doors. She jumped.

Fucking Llewellyn. What now?

Spencer burst into the room, having made a beeline in case of another trocar-in-the-foot incident.

Tools. Everywhere.

Arterial tubes, cavity injectors, and hydro aspirator pieces were all over the floor, not to mention the potent scent of formaldehyde in the air—more so than usual.Llewellyn was sprawled on the ground in the middle of the mess.

She wanted to snap. Yelling at him would feel so good right now. All her pent-up annoyance could come roaring out, and she’d feel so much lighter. But she didn’t. She paused, took a breath, and did what she thought Brett would do.

“Get up.” She offered a hand. “Come on. Tell me what happened.”

“R-really? You’re not mad?” Llewellyn’s voice wavered as he accepted her help to get back on two feet.

“Oh, I’m pissed. I think this is ridiculous. But I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

He dusted off his butt and straightened his glasses. “I slipped.”

“On what?”

“Formalin.”

She rubbed her eyebrows. “Why is there formalin on the floor?”

“I spilled.”

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