Drop Dead Gorgeous

She stops what she’s doing . . . no, she’s done, I think. She lays a fresh and clean gloved hand on the body’s shoulder and whispers something. I’m not sure if she’s talking to him or to herself, but she pulls a plastic sheet over him and pushes the table over to a large stainless-steel door, which she opens and disappears behind for a moment.

When she comes back, she’s alone, and I finally relax my firm grip on my stomach’s reflexes. She strips off her gown, cap, and booties, throwing them in a red bag.

Normally, I’d be all in for a striptease, but this one isn’t particularly flirty. In fact, she looks haunted and reluctant. But she bravely comes closer, sitting on the edge of her desk next to me. “You have people. I don’t. On purpose.” She says it so matter of factly about something that sounds like it hits her deep and sharp.

“They call me Drop-Dead Gorgeous,” she finally says, “or DDG. It’s a nickname.”

For some, I can imagine that might be a compliment. By Zoey’s stilted speech, I can tell it most definitely is not one to her. “A rather cruel one.”

Zoey shakes her head. “Deserved. I . . .” She pauses, pregnant with meaning, and then waves her hands around, gesturing to the room surrounding us. “I deal with death all day. It freaks most people out. I freak people out.”

“Not me,” I say reassuringly. I really, really want to put my hand on her knee that’s right there, but I don’t because I think this is the part where she tells me to get lost. “I mean, there’s always a need for a coroner, someone who sees off the dead. That’s rather noble, when you think of it that way. So, drinks?”

She blinks slowly, like she’s trying to figure out my game. But the only thing I’m playing at is getting to know her.

“Paperwork,” she corrects.

“And drinks. Maybe dinner too, because now that you’re not all gross” —I gesture to her hands, clean and pristine, with those graceful fingers that I now realize hold a scalpel with precision, not tickle the ivories— “I think I might be able to actually eat.” I cut the insult with a flirty smile.

“You’re weird,” she says with a small laugh as she examines a loose thread on the tie of her scrub pants.

“Aw, thanks. You too.”

“I’m not sure that was a compliment.”

“It definitely was.”

She doesn’t seem certain and definitely isn’t what I would call excited about this plan, but she tells me, “Hold on just a second and let me change.”

She heads for a different door, and when it opens, I can see that it’s a closet of sorts with a couple of lockers along the back wall.

As she crosses the threshold, she stops and looks back over her shoulder. Licking her lips, she eyes me carefully. Fragile hope is written in every line of tension on her face.

“You can make a run for it while I’m changing clothes if you want. I’ll send the paperwork over tonight either way.”

In response, I plant both feet on the floor and cross my arms over my chest, making it clear that I’m not going anywhere.

She turns away from me, but I catch the smile on her full lips for a split second before she covers it with her fingers as though she’s feeling the uptilt of her mouth in confusion.

She’s only gone a moment before I look around, trying to figure her out.

She’s an enigma wrapped in questions and bow-tied like a present with something equally tempting and terrifying. I see a coffee mug with a picture of Morticia Adams and smile, wondering who gave it to her because it doesn’t seem like something Zoey would buy herself. I see a stack of askew file folders, each with different names on the tabs, letting me know that she’s good at her job and takes it seriously, but I’d already deduced that.

And last but not least, I see a picture of her and a tall, blonde guy. Based on their ages, I think it’s the infamous Jacob. It looks like he’s giving her a noogie, roughing up her hair. She looks murderous at first glance, but the glint in her eyes says it’s all in jest.

When the door opens, she’s wearing jeans, a black tank top, and flat booties. She’s pulled her hair down from its bun, and it curls seductively below her breasts.

I whistle in approval before saying, “You look beautiful, Zo.”

“Thanks, I think.” She seems unaccustomed to getting compliments, but that can’t be true.

Unusual occupation aside, she’s gorgeous and interesting and funny. Did I mention gorgeous?

“Let’s get this over with,” she sighs.

“Just the response I want to hear from a date.”

“Not a date,” she argues formally.

“Paperwork, then. Let’s get that part over with so I can discover more about you.”