“Who?” Ronnie asked. “Pricks?”
“Jerks,” Kat clarified. “Hot guys who think they’re hot shit. I officially declare, no more.”
“Yeah, right,” Laura snorted.
“I’m serious!” Kat insisted as Laura and Ronnie both guffawed. “I know my radar is broken. My compass is calibrated to assholes. What if I ignored my instincts and went for the opposite of my type? Someone sweet and nice.”
“But you’re not attracted to someone like that,” Ronnie pointed out.
“Exactly,” Kat agreed. “If I’m always chasing after Mr. Wrong, how will I ever find Mr. Right?”
JoJo scratched at the side of the container.
“Before we go looking for Mr. Right, how about we find some pet food?” Laura rummaged through the bags of stuff from Tad. “I think the little critter is hungry.”
“What do hedgehogs eat, anyway?” Ronnie wondered.
“Ah-ha!” Laura waved a box of kibble in triumph. “Tad might be a narcissistic prick, but at least he left supplies.” She sprinkled a few nuggets into the container, and JoJo began to nibble, making soft crunching sounds with the tiny teeth it turned out hedgehogs did indeed have.
“Oh my god, look at her little hands!” Ronnie cooed. “That’s adorable.”
“Much cuter than my offspring slurping mac and cheese,” Laura agreed. “Which reminds me, I need to get going, I have my own hungry brood to feed.” Stuffing her cozy cocks and yarn into her crochet bag, Laura prepared to leave. She paused to pat Kat on the back. “Welcome to the single parents club.”
“Thanks.” Smiling despite herself, Kat waved as Laura exited through the front of the shop.
“Sorry about the breakup,” Ronnie said, locking the door again after Laura left. “At least you got this bundle of cuteness out of the deal.”
“Did you hear that, JoJo?” Kat rested her elbows on the counter and watched the hedgehog munch away, blissfully unaware of how much her world had changed. “It’s you and me now.”
“And me,” Ronnie noted. “Unless you’re planning to take JoJo with you tonight.”
Shit. Friday. CCC night. “Are you offering to watch her?” Kat asked. “How much is the average hedgehog sitter charging these days?”
“Depends,” Ronnie said, a playful gleam in their eye. “Do you have any of your grandma’s cookies upstairs?”
Kat didn’t need to be asked twice. She gathered the bags and led the way up to her place. One of the best perks of managing the flower shop for Allen was the apartment that came with the job. “Are you sure all you want is some of Babcia’s cookies?” Kat asked once they’d gotten JoJo settled.
“I want all of them, thank you.” Ronnie popped the lid on the cookie tin and plopped onto the papasan chair in the corner. “And you’ll need to drop off the deposit at the bank.”
“Done,” Kat agreed. “Anything else?”
“Oh!” Ronnie exclaimed around a mouthful of cookie. “I almost forgot, there is one other thing. A delivery.”
Kat blinked. “Tonight?”
Ronnie nodded. “The client specifically requested the drop-off happen at six thirty. Since it was after Laura’s shift, I was planning to handle it.”
Kat glanced at the clock. It was one of those kitschy cat clocks with the swinging tail and blinking eyes. A gift from her grandmother. Babcia had found it at the thrift store, dusty and broken. She’d tucked it under her arm like a lost kitten and taken it home. Now it perched on Kat’s living room wall, as good as new. The tail twitched mischievously as the hands on the clock crept toward six. With all that had happened since closing the shop, Kat thought it would have been later.
But nope. It had taken less than an hour for her life to get upended. “Yeah, okay. I should have time to squeeze it in. Where?”
“O’Sullivan’s Funeral Home.”
“A funeral?” Kat froze, an unwelcome but familiar ripple of nausea washing over her.
“I know you hate these, but it’s a small order,” Ronnie assured her. “Everything’s packed and ready to go in the delivery cooler. You’ll be in and out in no time.” Ronnie bit into another cookie, letting the hedgehog nibble crumbs from their finger.
“Fine,” Kat grumbled. “I’ll do it.” She’d been dumped without warning, become the adopted parent of a hedgehog, and now she was headed to a funeral.
Not how she’d expected her evening to go.
CHAPTER 2
Mick
Mick O’Sullivan tugged at the collar of his shirt. It was six minutes after six on Friday night, and he was ready to get the evening over with. He tugged at his collar again, giving in to the urge to undo the top button. Across the room, his brother adjusted his glasses, frowning in disapproval. Mick knew as soon as Joe got the chance, he was going to give him hell for not wearing a tie. However, Joe was currently occupied comforting a bereaved widow, so Mick was off the hook for the moment.
Not that a stern talking to, now or later, was going to change anything. Mick could barely stand the collared dress shirts he’d agreed to wear during services, he was not going to add a tie. Meanwhile, Joe seemed to enjoy being strangled by his clothes. Tonight, he was dressed in one of his many impeccable ensembles, complete not only with a crisp, buttoned shirt and tie, but a jacket and waistcoat too—the whole nine yards.
The suits were all part of Joe’s charm. His older brother possessed a quiet sort of competence that clients found reassuring. With a calm, unassuming demeanor that put them instantly at ease, Joe’s pleasant, polished appearance provided a sense of order amid the chaos people often experienced following a death. A useful quality in this business.
Mick glanced around, checking once again to make sure everything was ready. Water pitcher full? Check. Clean glasses stacked nearby? Check. Plenty of tissues? Check. The small room was formal but cozy. One of the private suites the funeral home reserved for mourning family members, with overstuffed chairs and large comfortable sofas slipcovered in a tasteful, muted print that hid any manner of stains, from tears and snot to vomit and who knows what else. Grief was messy. This was where those closest to the deceased gathered to collect themselves before, after—and sometimes during—a service.
In one of those chairs sat an elderly woman draped in black lace. The first Mrs. Murphy, ex-wife of the deceased, impatiently tapped a silver-tipped walking stick. The tapping stopped and she pivoted, turning toward Mick.
Before she could ask, he dutifully reported, “Getting closer to six thirty, Mrs. Murphy.” She’d been asking him for the time every few minutes since she’d arrived.
Tiny in stature but a giant pain in the ass, the woman had caused trouble from the moment planning for this funeral began. Not that Mick blamed her. If anything, he respected her fervent desire to help with the arrangements for her ex-husband’s burial. Unfortunately, the second Mrs. Murphy did not share this sentiment.
Both widows had arrived this evening at six sharp and taken up positions on opposite ends of the family parlor. So far, all they’d done was stare daggers at each other from across the room, but Mick smelled trouble brewing.