Page 79 of Buried Beneath Sin

“Do you like the design concept?” I demand, my voice sharp.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize I was allowed to—” Beatrix stops herself. She shakes her head, dispelling whatever notion she’d believed, and lowers her shoulders. “Yeah, I do. A lot.”

Her eyes drop back to the screen.

She’s lying. Why else would she keep quiet? My body tenses and I take a deep breath, ready to tell her thatI’mthe one with the eye for design, thatIspent hours researching different upscale funeral homes and their designs. She’s just a fucking bumbling nobody with?—

“The colors and textures are amazing, Knox,” she says after a beat. Her head comes back up to give me a tentative but sweet smile. Her eyes glitter with excitement and delight. “It’s so beautiful I could cry. Can you really do this?”

Oh. I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the swift shift in my emotion as pride swells up in my chest. I didn’t realize I was actively seeking her approval until now. I relax back against the couch cushions.

“I’m not anidiot, Starr Girl. If I didn’t think it was possible, I wouldn’t have suggested it,” I clap back sharply.

Thatcher clears his throat. It’s a subtle reminder to behave. Inwardly, I heave an exasperated sigh.

Right. She’s supposed to be my friend. Friends don’t talk to each other like this. In any case, she just complimented my work, didn’t she? Who doesn’t like to have their work appreciated? I shoot Thatcher a look that he doesn’t see, then turn my attention back to Beatrix who’s purposely avoiding looking in my direction at all. I frown. She’d was just staring at me with stars in her eyes. Now, I’ve frightened her enough for her to want to avoid me. A fleeting moment of guilt causes my stomach to twist.

It’s there and gone a moment later.

Psh, fuck it. Why do I care if I’ve hurt her feelings? I don’t. The fact that I even feel guilty is stupid. That would mean I valued her opinion and feelings in the first place. And I don’t. Really… Idon’t. But I guess if we’re supposed to be best friends, I have to pretend to care.

“Yes,” I say, trying again through gritted teeth. “All this should be relatively easy, and given that this is the smallest funeral home I’ve seen, it shouldn’t take me long at all to pull it off.”

Thatcher chuckles from behind the desk, “You meanSagancan pull it off.”

I flip him the bird without turning to face him, too busy watching Starr Girl’s crestfallen expression deepen a little more.

“It's just…” she starts slowly, stopping to cringe as if she regrets speaking up.

My stomach drops. There’s abut? How fucking dare she questionmywork? As if she knows anything aboutanything. Fucking bitch.

“You justwhat?” I sneer, ready to knock her off the high horse she must’ve climbed up on recently. “Come on, speak up. I want to hear what you think, Starr Girl. Since you’resoknowledgeable about design and have kept up with it here, let’s hear your bright ideas.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice Thatcher’s head jerk upright. I can feel his glare from here, but I ignore him. He won’t step between us, that’s not how this works. If Starr Girl doesn’t like how I’m talking to her, she’ll have to learn to stand on her own two feet. But first things first, I want this pathetic, whimpering bitch to try to best me in something I excel at.

“I, ah,” she hesitates for a second as she stares at the screen. After a second, she licks her bottom lip, sets her shoulders, and briefly meets my hard gaze. “The tile you have won’t work in thepreparation room. Would you consider…” She clears her throat and pushes on. “Do you mind if we keep the linoleum in there? It’s easier to clean and having a smooth surface is ideal given what I do in that room. There’s an option to have this tile you’ve chosen come as a roll of linoleum. I really like the color you choose, so if you want a cohesive look, maybe you could consider using that instead?”

The heat seeps out of me again. Chagrin is like a humid breeze passing by. To give myself a second, I take a deep breath and kick my feet up on the coffee table, pretending to think it over while I scold myself for jumping the gun again. What is wrong with me? Why am I getting so defensive?

“If what’s in that room works, there’s no need to waste the money to change it. Especially since no one is going to see it,” I say after a minute, making sure there’s no more bite to my tone. “I’m glad you like the design.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Knox. Bright Starr is going to look amazing,” she says, beaming at me.

An unexpected shudder whips through me following her declaration. It’s not often that I get praised for anything, especially from anyone other than Thatcher or Sagan. I can see the truth of her words shining in her eyes and it’s hard to miss the warmth in her voice. How did I miss it before?

I look back down at the screen, away from her smile, and wonder why my chest is constricting so tightly. I blame Sagan for my crazy mood swings today. From waking me up early, to touching me, and then forcing me to work? Of course I’ll be moody.

It certainly has nothing to do with being fond of the woman who’s been forced into my life.

After lunch, Sagan has me following him outside into the cold dreary day to help clean out the rickety shed. I sulk after him. After letting Starr Girl get back to work, I’ve been feeling even moodier than ever. From waking up from a weird sex dream about a girl I couldn’t give one fuck about, resenting that same woman when I thought she was about to tear my hard work to pieces only to turn around to bask in her praise seconds later, to feeling a tiny bit bad about barking at her—despite her deserving it—I’m feeling all sorts of out of whack. My mood keeps changing, swinging like a pendulum from one extreme to another.

“Is this really necessary?” I complain as we walk around the unsteady structure.

“We need the space for the new stuff I’ll need come spring,” Sagan grumbles. “So yes, Knox, it’s necessary.”

Of course it is. Sagan doesn’t waste his time, energy, or breath on anything that isn’t. Still, what does this have to do with me? I should be inside the warm cozy building learning how to be a good hostess.

Not that I need Starr Girl’s training onthat.How hard can it be to serve good food, set up beautiful decor, and play music that will rip out the hearts of our visitors? I don’tneedStarr Girl to figure all that out. If Thatcher wasn’t insisting on having her show me the ropes, I would’ve told Beatrix to fuck off so that I can figure it out on my own.

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