Drop Dead Gorgeous

No doubt about that.

“Valid point, but maybe too soon?” she questions. “Are you here to ask me to dinner again?”

“Yes and no,” I reply, giving her my most charming smile. It’s definitely not hard with her. “I had to come out here for work reasons, but I’m hoping you’ll take pity on me and accompany me to dinner before I make the long drive back.”

I flash her my best puppy dog eyes and am finally given that smile I’ve been craving. I saw it fade so completely at dinner the other night and have dreamt of watching her mouth lift in happiness once again.

I bask in it for a quick heartbeat until she asks, “Work?”

Ugh, that.

“Yes, in a small-world twist, I’m here to follow up on someone we have in common. Richard Horne.”

Zoey’s brows knit together, a cute little wrinkle between them. “Dick Horne. The nickname that’s worse than the given one. Pretty sadistic of his parents, if you ask me.” She looks haunted for a moment, as though hearing a line of people calling her Drop-Dead Gorgeous in her mind. Refocusing, she asks, “What about him?”

“Well, I had a visit from Yvette Horne, his widow,” I explain. “Mr. Horne had a rather large life insurance policy, and the head office has me handling the case. She’s putting pressure on us to finalize the payout, but until the case is resolved, we can’t do that. Since you’re the coroner on file, I wanted to see if you had any insight or information about the toxicology report and cause of death.”

Too late, I realize that though Zoey hasn’t moved, the scant inches between us have grown, filling with distant professionalism.

“Oh, all my findings are in the report. And the repeat toxicology is expected soon, but no promises on a delivery date.” Her tone is clipped and practiced, that of a medical personnel to an outsider.

“Don’t do that, Zo,” I whisper-growl, dropping all pretenses of professionalism. “Having a case in common is no big deal.”

“It is when the case is ongoing,” she disagrees. “It could be seen as unprofessional or a conflict of interest.”

Judging by the way she won’t meet my eyes, even she doesn’t believe that.

“Do you have an interest in whether Yvette Horne gets the money?”

Her eyes flash at the question and I nod in agreement. “Exactly. Me neither. We’re box checkers. So don’t make this into something it’s not. Don’t let it be an excuse.”

“Excuse?” she questions, but her voice has gone quiet and breathy. She knows exactly what I’m talking about, what she’s trying to do. She’s already tried to push me away because of fear and superstition, and now she’s trying to use professionalism to do it too.

But there’s no need to deny ourselves.

I lean toward her, feeling her quickening breath warm my chest where her eyes are locked, not willing to lift to meet mine. She places one fingertip against my sternum, pushing me back. I lean into her touch for a split second, wishing for more.

“You feel this. I know you do.” I catch her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips to lay a soft kiss to her fingertip. Her focus stays locked on her finger against my lips. Good. I want her to hear this, see it, feel it. “I understand that you’re scared. But I’m not.”

For such a gentle touch, the kiss feels intimate, a sign of things to come, especially when she slowly traces my lower lip with that fingertip.

But her doubts rise to the surface. If they faded at all.

“That’s because you have all this goodness in you, and happiness around you, and I only have this.” Freeing her hand, she gestures to the morgue and death all around her before dropping her eyes.

I don’t let her do that and lift her chin and eyes to meet mine, cupping her face. “That’s not all you have. You have goodness in you too. Let me show you.”

For a moment, I can see her waver, her eyes searching mine for something.

A joke?

Does she think I’m one of these assholes who tease her incessantly?

Or a curse?

She told me her history, and she’s not responsible for any of it, though she doesn’t believe that. Bad luck, accidents, and a life long-lived . . . those are her true demons.

I lean forward slowly, making my intention clear as my gaze drops to her lips. She licks them in preparation, a sigh of desire escaping. There’s a scant inch between us when she backs away suddenly, her hip bumping into the table behind her, and it rolls away.

It knocks her off balance, and she stumbles, falling with little grace to her butt on the floor. Her legs are askew, her mouth opens in an O of surprise, and her hands splay wide behind her. “Oh!” she says, stunned before she reaches for her bruised backside. “Ow!”