Drop Dead Gorgeous

Tears spill over, but I brush them away. I’ve cried rivers—no, oceans—of tears over my parents and grandparents, but all it ever does is give me a headache. It doesn’t bring them back, and it doesn’t lessen my guilt.

“Zoey, I am so sorry, baby,” Blake coos soothingly. “But none of that is your fault. Peanut butter allergies, wayward dodgeballs, clumsy kids, a bad parachute packer—all just bad luck. And your parents? The blame lies with the person who got behind the wheel after they’d been drinking. Your grandma could’ve seen a doctor sooner, and your grandpa’s death sounds like an act of God. I don’t mean that to be rude, it’s literally a class of death in the insurance industry.”

Really, he explains it all away, each and every horrific thing I’ve done, with a wave of his hand as though none of it matters. “Is that all you’ve got? Because I’d like to ask you out again.”

“You are . . . something else, Mr. Hale.”

This time he doesn’t correct me, and though I can’t see him through the phone, I get the sense he puffed up with pride at what he’s taking as a compliment.

“You too, Miss Walker. Now, as I was saying, would you go out with me?”

I think about it again, wanting to so badly. But a lifetime of fear, of tragedy, of coping mechanisms, and superstitions honed through repeated uses doesn’t dissolve instantly.

“No,” I say haltingly, “but I will talk on the phone with you a little longer. Even though you apparently have a death wish and a penchant for Black Widow types.”

Another one of my nicknames.

He laughs again, and it’s a deep, vibrating chuckle that makes my heart thump loudly in my chest. For someone often called a death dealer and surrounded by death all day for my whole life, Blake Hale makes me feel wonderfully, amazingly . . . alive.

“So, now that I’ve told you my deep, dark past, how about you tell me yours so I don’t feel like such a weirdo?” I ask.

And he does, except none of it is the slightest bit deep, dark, or weird.

He’s oddly normal, especially for someone who likes me.

He tells me about his awesome parents, who are still married and flirt with each other like they’re kids, chasing each other around the house and having tickle fights. He tells me about his sister, Amy, who’s married to Fernanda, the best brunch cooker in existence, apparently.

He promises me that he’ll take me to brunch sometime so I can agree with him that her skills outweigh those of any chef on television. And he tells me about his dog, Chunky, a mutt that more adopted him than the other way around.

“I’m hesitant to tell you why he’s named that, though,” Blake says.

“Chunky? Is he overweight?” I guess.

“Well, yes, but it’s not that. It’s that he . . . uh, he likes peanut butter. But only the kind with peanuts in it. If it’s creamy, he will turn his nose up at it, sit down, and refuse to even look at me. Spoiled little shit, which is absolutely a term of affection for my buddy.”

“Peanut. Butter?” I repeat slowly. “Are you serious? Or are you making that up to give me a hard time?”

He doesn’t answer so much as call the dog to him off mic. “Chunky! Come here. Who’s a good boy?”

I can hear snuffles of breathing and picture Blake curled up on the couch with a dog fighting to get closer to him for loving pats. It’s a cute imaginary picture, but it needs details.

“What are you wearing?” The words pop out before I can stop them.

“Gray sweatpants and dog slobber. You?”

There’s a hint of heat on that last bit as he drags the word out low and slow, letting me hear that eyebrow lift of his in his tone.

Oh, shit, did he think I was trying to take this back to a booty call-slash-phone sex situation? I wasn’t. I mean, I’m not.

“I didn’t mean . . . like for sexy talk. I was trying to picture you and Chunky. What color is he?”

“Actually,” Blake says easily, “he’s pretty peanut butter-colored too. It’s a running theme with this guy.” He pauses to give the dog some smacking kisses, making me smile and wish he were kissing me like that. Sweet, quick, noisy kisses, probably on my forehead. I mean, Chunky’s forehead. “And you didn’t answer the question.”

“Oh, uh . . . just an old T-shirt. I was wrapped up in a blanket, watching television when you called.”

“What’re you watching?”

“Survivor. They’re doing an obstacle course, jumping over these big sand castle things, running down the beach, and swimming around a buoy out in the water.”

“Sounds exciting,” Blake says around a quiet yawn. “Who’s your favorite contestant?”

I tell him about the young woman who’s playing a killer game, acting helpless and uber-friendly, but in the candid interviews she’s actually really good at reading people and playing to who they expect her to be while building alliances.