Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
And makes me feel worse that I tried to treat him like my own personal sex worker.
“Paul lives here. He’s on call too. But we both kind of do our own thing in our down-time.”
“When will your dad be back from the call?” he asks.
I shrug. “It’s hard to say. Depends on where it was and the paperwork involved. It could be hours before he returns here with the body, or any minute.”
He throws a glance at the back door. “You ever have a problem with someone trying to break in, you know you can call us, right?” He tilts his head toward the parking lot. “Protection is part of the arrangement with my club.”
“But you all live so far away.” My lips curve into a small smile. “Although the Slater County sheriff would probably take just as long to get here.”
He frowns slightly. “I have a couple friends over in Johnsonville who’d get here quicker if you need help.”
“Griff? Remy?” I ask. Obviously, they’re close enough to the club that they were invited to Teller’s wedding.
“Yeah,” he growls. “And another couple of guys.”
I wish I’d never admitted that I thought about asking Griff to help me with my problem. It was only a fleeting thought, and I only said it because Jigsaw’s inevitable rejection hurt my feelings.
“Let me make that coffee,” I say, hurrying into the kitchen. The old, white linoleum under my feet, though spotless, squeaks in familiar spots—an audible reminder of how long it’s been since we’ve updated this part of the house.
He follows behind me, seeming to take up an unusual amount of space even in the large kitchen. He hovers close while I measure the coffee and hit Brew.
“How do you like it?” I face the dark wood cabinet, my hand lingering near the handle.
“Black with sugar.”
I turn, glancing at him over my shoulder. “No cream?”
“Nah.” He swivels his head around, checking out the kitchen in a more leisurely manner than the last time he was here.
A wave of self-consciousness follows me to the refrigerator. I pull out a carton of half-and-half, check that it’s still in date, and set it on the counter, then find some stray sugar packets in a drawer.
Once we have our coffee, I cup my steaming mug in my chilled hands. “Let’s move into the parlor, it’s more comfortable.”
“Lead the way.” He grabs his mug and waves his hand in a flourish that’s almost mocking.
Instead of returning to the main hallway, I push through a swinging door into a long, rectangular room that looks more like a museum than a living room. I perch at the edge of a bouncy cushion on the long gold velvet settee with wood-carved armrests and legs.
“Comfortable or time capsule?” Jigsaw quips, a half smirk playing over his lips as he examines the faded marigold wallpaper.
I bristle, not appreciating the critique of my family’s home. But even I have to admit the heavy drapes, floral patterns, and ornate velvet furniture make it look like the set of a seventies murder-mystery show that takes place in a, well, funeral home.
“The death business is rather…conservative.” I hate the note of apology in my voice. If I had my way, I’d redecorate the whole house. My own space upstairs is much more modern.
“It’s charming.” The couch dips as Jigsaw sits on the cushion next to me. Closer than polite company. So close, his thigh brushes mine and our elbows touch.
Oh, boy. An elbow touch. How racy!
“Well.” I clear my throat and lean forward to set my mug on a coaster on the coffee table. “My dad could have sold out to one of the big national death services companies a few years ago when they were buying up family funeral homes like ours. But he’s stubborn.”
“Sounds complicated.” Jigsaw sips his coffee. “But you’re a necessary business, right? Death is inevitable.”
“Sure. But more people are using cremation now. Or choosing to have smaller, more personal services.” I huff a quick laugh. “The death business is dying.”
His lips twitch.
“It’s one job market where there is little to no growth.” Why am I babbling about death when I’d rather talk about something extremely life-affirming?
“What would you do if you weren’t doing this?” he asks.
“Makeup.” There’s something I haven’t admitted to anyone in a long time. “I went to cosmetology school before I obtained my Mortuary Science degree.”
He nods slowly and a flush of embarrassment licks at my cheeks. He probably thinks that’s a low-effort, girly career.
“Strange I ended up here instead, right?”
“Not really.” He tilts his head, pinning me with a playful stare. “The woman you thought was my wife, Serena, is a makeup artist. Well, she was a physical therapist, but she makes more with her YouTube channel now and it’s more flexible with the baby coming and all.”
“Really?” I squeal. “Which channel?”