One Look: A grumpy, single dad small town romance(4)

The Kings.

Among the imposing circle of suit-wearing beasts were two young women. Only one of the Kings was not shooting daggers toward the Sullivans. Rather, one of the women was sneaking glances in their direction. Specifically, toward the oldest Sullivan. Duke, if I recalled his name correctly, appeared completely oblivious.

Very interesting.

I schooled my face and looked down at the open hole in the earth. When one of my roommates in Chicago had told me about how her cousin had made a killing as an improv actor at funerals in New York, my wheels had started turning. One by one my roommates had moved on to New York or LA, some even giving up altogether and packing up to head for home. I couldn’t give up the dream, not yet.

My big break was only a job or two away. I just knew it. The office temp work I’d been doing between acting jobs in Chicago was fine, but not enough to sustain my lofty city apartment rental. Or my thirst for adventure.

So one semiprofessional-looking website later, I was officially a mourner for hire in the Chicagoland and coastal Michigan area. After fifteen funerals, all the faces were starting to blend together, but observing and drawing conclusions about the strangers who moved in and out of my life was one of the best parts of this job. Improv acting kept life interesting, and the romance novels on my nightstand didn’t hold a candle to the salacious stories I could come up with in my own mind.

Tootie and her group of mismatched, haphazard family members stood on the complete opposite side of the Kings. Her soft, round face smiled at those who walked up, and she offered enthusiastic hugs to everyone, whether they seemed to want one or not. The Sullivan men were also stupidly handsome.

They were dressed in jackets and ties, with some in freshly pressed denim, a bit more blue collar than the Kings appeared to be. They exuded confidence and charm. One look at the older man who stood beside Tootie and you could see where the men got their classic good looks. Though he looked a bit lost, the rugged lines of hard work outdoors made his face only handsomer.

I took in the distinctions between the two groups and how both shot angry, spiteful glares toward the other. As I continued to look on, my lips pressed together in a demure smile anytime someone’s curious eyes lingered a moment too long.

Everyone except for him.

On the outskirts of the Sullivan clan was the man from yesterday. The one I couldn’t seem to shake. He was tall and broad. His chin tipped up slightly, giving him an air of cockiness that would have been enticing if it weren’t for the permanent scowl he wore with it.

When I had walked past him at the funeral home, I was so inundated with his rough and masculine smell and pointed stare, I nearly stumbled in my new heels. His haunting whiskey brown eyes had tracked my walk out of the room, and though I’d tried to ignore it, I could feel them all the way until I rounded the corner out of view.

The little girl was with him again today. She was too young to be his little sister, and the way she clung to his leg after coming back with a plate of cookies yesterday, and again today, revealed he was likely her dad. When he wrapped a strong hand around her shoulder and pulled her closer, my heart stuttered, just for a moment.

His masculine, protective vibe was sexy—there was no denying that—but I’d been given a job, and I doubted banging the brooding grump just to see if he’d crack a smile was part of the performance.

But seriously, who doesn’t love a grumpy DILF?

Tootie and Bug had specifically requested actual tears after they found my website and hired me. I was also instructed to sprinkle in a few well-timed gasps and sudden shotgun sobs. Nothing too over the top, but enough to get people talking. My eyes flicked to the old women, who’d taken to completely ignoring each other in public.

I laughed to myself.

Those two are something else.

Then I felt it again, the intensity of his eyes, searing my skin from fifteen feet away. Family members like him could be dangerous and bad for business. They often singled you out over lukewarm tuna casserole and asked too many questions.

I took the opportunity to shake my head and release a ragged breath just in time for the preacher to begin his service.





Once the crowd had dissipated, I stepped from the hiding place in my car and glanced around to be sure I was alone. Cursing myself for having to wear high heels at the funeral service when I knew flats were a better choice, I walked across the grass on my tiptoes, trying to prevent the heels from sinking into the soft earth. An impulse purchase of sexy new shoes with a delicate leather bow on the back meant the blister I was sporting was fresh and the flats I’d planned were totally out of the question.

Rookie move.

Steadying myself, I continued to trudge toward the area where they’d laid Mr. Bowlegs to rest while the preacher gave a truly moving service.

Bowlegs—well, that was a first.

Outtatowner had more quirks than I thought possible, but my favorite was the fact that many of the townies had special nicknames. Tootie informed me some were random, most were inappropriate, and once you’d been given one, it was damn near impossible to shake it.

I passed a groundskeeper who was working to stack and remove chairs. He scooped the hat from his head and nodded before slipping away to give me a bit of privacy.

I stood, peering down at the simple casket nestled in the earth. As it often did, a swell of emotion gathered in my chest as I cleared my throat.

I whispered down to him. “Thank you, Mr. Bowlegs, for the honor of attending your services. I hope that I provided your family with peace and comfort.”