“The ashes?” I offer, realizing what I’m going to have to do. There’s not much we aren’t willing to accommodate in order to ease the pain of our clients. And it’s starting to look like this will be no different.
She nods.
“Hand it over,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster.
She spits a laugh through her tears. “I know I’m ridiculous… God, this is so embarrassing. I promise, it hasn’t been used.”
Even with years of experience keeping my wits in the most asinine situations, I cannot contain the loud cackle that bursts from my chest. “I really should have thought to ask that question before grabbing it with my bare hands, huh?”
We’re both rolling by the time she gets up again to leave. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this, Whitney.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say, walking her to the front door. “Your husband’s penis is in good hands with me.”
Just one…more…screw… I bend until my cheek is almost meeting the floor, twisting my wrist to get the drill beneath the pew and attach the custom kneeler. My back and shoulders are on fire from being in this crouched position for so long. Sweet mercy is finally within reach… lunch break!
“Nice plumber crack ya got goin’ there.”
Thunk! “Ouch! Son of a—”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
I come up, holding the throbbing lump already protruding from the crown of my head. It’s more than possible I exaggerate the pain just a smidge when Whitney crouches beside me to inspect the damage. “Fuck. That hurt.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she offers, biting back a grin. “Does it hurt really bad?”
“You think this is funny?” I growl, wincing for affect.
She shakes her head, letting a snort slip through as she reaches around moving my hands out of the way to feel for herself. “It’s not.” She sucks in her cheeks. “It’s not funny…”
Dear Lord, but it amuses me how hard she’s working to keep a straight face. “You trying to convince me? Or yourself?”
“I just can’t help it.” She snickers. “I have this awful habit of laughing when people hurt themselves.” With the gentlest touch, she rubs the pads of her fingers over the knot. “I mean, I like to think if anyone were ever seriously injured in my presence, I would react appropriately.”
I grip the back of the pew, cracking my knees when I push up to standing, then reach for her hand to help her back up. “Well, at least we know you ended up in the right career.” I take a brief moment to appreciate how beautiful she looks today with her hair pinned up in a bun and a blouse that’s cut just high enough to pass for decent while still offering a hint of mouthwatering cleavage. That milky expanse of skin along her neck is just begging for my lips. My pulse speeds up, and I’m feeling hot beneath the collar.
“Why do you say that? Because they’re dead?”
Her question draws me from my stupor. I clear my throat. “Precisely.”
“I really would be a disaster in the medical field.” She cracks a huge grin. “Or, could you imagine…me as a teacher?”
“A lawsuit waiting to happen,” I agree.
She shrugs. “What can I say? Gotta have gumption to work here.”
“Gumption…” I hold out one hand. “Balls,” I say, holding out the other while tipping them side to side like a teeter totter.
“Huh?”
I can’t help but chuckle at the recent memory. “A very wise beyond her years six-year-old once told me that not everyone has the balls to work in a funeral home.”
Her jaw drops. “She didn’t?”
I wave away her mortification. “She was really trying to be sweet.”
Her eyes roll. “Sounds like it.”
“She was attempting to sooth my ego when I declined her invitation to assist in an embalming.”
“She did not!”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I joke about it all the time, but I really should enroll that child in etiquette classes.”
“Don’t you dare.” I shudder at the thought. “She’s perfect.”
Her lip quirks with uncertainty. “Thanks for saying that.” But she doesn’t look at all like she believes I’m serious.
“I mean it.” I move to my workstation to put away some of my tools. “Anyway… What can I do for ya?” My hand involuntary moves back to the egg-sized lump. “Or did you just drop by to enjoy the view of my backside?” I glance over my own shoulder, toward the ass in question.
“I did actually come by to ask for a little favor…” She fans her long lashes up at me while pinching two fingers together, leaving only the teensiest sliver of space. “That,” she says, following my line of sight to my ass, “was just a bonus.”
To say I’m shocked by her flirty demeanor would be putting it mildly. “What’s that?” I ask, cupping a hand around my ear. “Did I just hear you say you stopped by to arrange another date?”
“Tell you what,” she says, taking my hand and starting for the door, “you help me with this chore, and I’ll owe you two.”
I should probably be more concerned with the nature of the task at hand, especially since she’s readily offering up an extra date, but I’ve lost the ability to think rationally. My head is suspended in the clouds as I allow her to lead me out back across the yard to the crematorium, only stopping to question her when we’re a few feet from the door and deep-seated fear starts to outweigh the looming reward. “You’re not gonna ask me to burn a body, right? Cuz you could literally strip down and offer yourself on a silver platter as a bribe, and as much as it’d kill me, I’d have to respectfully decline.”
She drops my hand to cover the laugh that bursts forth from her chest. “You have to have a license to cremate people.” She’s looking at me like I’m positively ridiculous.
“Right…”
“Come on, scaredy cat.” She jerks my arm, but my feet stay rooted to the soil. My heart is beating out of control, my earlier excitement quickly being overtaken by panic.
“I’d prefer to know what this task entails first.” The prospect of what lies on the other side of that door has me breaking out in a sweat.
“Prissy was right,” she taunts. Her sapphire eyes drop briefly to my crotch before lifting to meet my gaze.
“Ouch,” I say, “Low blow.”
She shrugs, and when I don’t budge, blows out a long breath. “A customer requested some of her husband’s cremains be placed in an odd-shaped container.” Her voice wavers. There’s a whole lot she isn’t saying…intentionally. And I’m not sure I want to find out what that something is. “It won’t stand on its own… I just need you to hold it so I can fill it. Easy peasy.” She twists a key in the lock and pushes the door open.
Immediately I’m hit with an odor I won’t soon forget—like a pig roasting over an open flame, combined with burned leather and an acrid, sweet scent so strong I can practically taste it. The worst part is knowing exactly what that smell sitting on the tip of my tongue is.