Drop Dead Gorgeous(51)

“Can I stop by this morning to talk for a second?” I ask nervously.

“Uh, yeah. Of course. What’s wrong? Need me to kill someone and burn the body?” she asks, probably joking but also possibly serious. “Good morning, baby girl.”

She doesn’t even pause to breathe, and I can hear her rummaging around, probably making Olive’s breakfast. At least, I’m pretty sure that last part was for Olive. I only answer the questions that were directed at me. “No murder or body disposal needed. But I saw Blake again last night.”

“What?” she screeches, and then in her sweet mom voice, she says, “Eat that quick while Mommy talks to Aunt Zo-Zo, ’kay?”

More shuffling, and then Holly excitedly orders, “Spill it fast before I climb through this phone and pull it out of you.”

Even through the phone, I can feel her buzzing. Maybe Jacob would’ve been better? But the idea of telling Jacob that Blake got me off on his kitchen island is enough to make me cringe. Holly is definitely the better choice.

I dive in, telling her, “I took him paperwork on the Richard Horne case and we ate dinner at his place.”

There, I did it.

I told her the bare bones of what happened, which should be more than enough for her to remember my curse, and now she can remind me to be careful. That’s what I want her to do . . . right?

Instead, Holly sighs in relief and a touch of giddiness. “Oh, thank God! I thought you were about to say you slept with him and he ghosted in the middle of the night.”

“Uh, that happens?” I ask, shocked. I know step five, but in the middle of the night? Damn.

Her laugh is bitter, and the tender side of me wonders if Holly’s experienced that. “Yeah, that happens. Sometimes not-dating is a good thing, Zoey.”

“Sorry?” I say lamely. Ouch . . . Holly’s weariness with the dating scene is obvious, and not knowing when she was hurt that way makes me feel like an ass.

Holly blows a short raspberry, dismissing my apology and moving on. “Okay, I feel like there’s a lot to unpack here, and I want to hear every juicy detail, especially the stuff you’re not saying. So here’s what we’re gonna do . . . I’m going to make sure Olive hasn’t smeared jelly all over the kitchen table, and we’ll get ready. I’ll drop her to school and head to work. Meet me at the funeral home, and we can talk while I get Mrs. Cochran processed. Okay?”

A discussion about my sex life near a dead body. Not that unusual to me. “Thanks, Holly.”

I hang up and flop back against my pillow to stare at the ceiling. I start to replay last night, but Holly is going to grill me, forcing me to spill every glorious-slash-dangerous detail, so I might as well wait for her insight.

Fuck knows, I don’t have a clue beyond avoid connections, and while my brain tells me that’s still mission priority, there are other parts of me arguing that fact and making some headway. I set my phone back on the nightstand, pressing my fingertips to the wood for a long moment.

Don’t let him get hurt.

I get up and shower, pulling on work scrubs and smoothing my hair back into its usual bun, making sure the baby hairs aren’t sticking up like crazy. Next, I brew a pot of coffee, leaving half for Jacob so that he can caffeinate when he gets up for school. He had a late class last night and an early class this morning—his not-favorite combination.

But hopefully, he’ll learn from his mistake and register for classes sooner next semester so he can get a better schedule and not have to take the leftover openings. A pseudo-guardian can dream.

Getting to the funeral home, I let myself into the back door, knowing my way around from experience. A few times I’ve helped Holly with transport, just to be nice and to get her out of my morgue.

Opening the door to the prep room, I find Holly wearing a large, clear plastic apron and black gloves. It’s not that different from what I wear for an autopsy, except her stuff is washable instead of disposable.

Who I assume to be Mrs. Cochran is on the table in front of her with curls half-done and ready to be teased into a hairstyle based on the picture propped up on Holly’s table.

“Hey, girl,” Holly says, not even looking up from her work.

“Hi,” I tell Holly. “Hello, Mrs. Cochran,” I tell the body. “Sorry to hear about . . . well, you know, your dying and all.”

No worries, dear. I had a good, long life. Could you tell this one to make sure my lipstick isn’t too red? She said something about making me look lively and I’m afraid that’s code for ‘harlot’.

I smile to myself and ask Holly, “What’re you planning for the makeup?”

Holly tilts her head, looking from Mrs. Cochran’s pale face to the picture. “Probably a rosy pink.”

“That’d look nice,” I agree, thankful I don’t have to share my imaginary conversation about too-red lips.

“So . . .” Holly prompts. Guess small talk’s over.

“Yeah, I told you, I saw Blake again last night.” I plop onto Holly’s stool, putting my feet on the bar around the bottom and resting my forearms on her work table. There’s nothing sterile, just makeup, hairspray, and dry shampoo, which I pick up to stare at as if it’s some new genius invention, not something I own three cans of myself. “Wait, did I tell you I saw him before too?”