Remy

1. Olivia

OLIVIA

“You look beautiful, Skylar.”I lean closer, adding a faint layer of blush to her cheeks. “As requested, your makeup is understated but elegant. It’s some of my best work.”

Her mouth sits gently pressed, her eyelids closed as I work my magic.

I grab one of my custom lipsticks—a dark ruby shade that almost perfectly matches the hue Skylar wore to her wedding—then my favorite lip brush. I get busy painting the luscious color on her mouth as the soft hum of my mellow pop playlist carries from my cell on the stainless-steel counter on the other side of the room.

“Have I told you how much I love your hair?” I finish her lips and readjust the lock of strawberry blonde resting against her forehead, guiding it to frame her jaw. “It’s breathtaking. So uniquely pretty.”

I could’ve done something more with the thick strands. Maybe a braid like mine, or gentle curls, but subtle class was the goal and I won’t stray from the style brief.

“Almost done.” I reach for the foundation to add a final layer over her chin, making sure the bruising from her car accident is fully concealed. “The fluorescents aren’t doing us any favors.” Every blemish and shadow is painfully highlighted. “Thankfully, the event room is more forgiving.”

The warm down lights will help her glow once it’s her time to shine.

“There. Stunning.” I sit back, admiring my handiwork as a knock sounds at the door, the hinges squeaking softly as it opens.

Ivy’s stunning face greets me, her long dark hair curtaining her shoulders as her attention turns to Skylar. “She looks fabulous.”

“I know, right?” I raise my protective face shield, then lower the mask from over my mouth. “I think the family will be happy.”

She approaches, her voluptuous body gliding forward in her stylish pantsuit with my family business name—Pelosi Funeral Home—emblazoned over the left breast of her jacket.

She grabs the picture of Skylar from beside my makeup kit and glances from the image to the dead woman laid out on the metal gurney. “She looks peaceful. It’s all the family can ask for. Well done.”

“Thanks.” A tingle of pride unfurls in my chest.

Praise is hard to come by in my profession. Typically, those paying for the service have other things on their mind than complimenting their loved one’s mortician. But when those welcomed words do occasionally brush my ears, it sinks deep.

“Do you need any help?” Ivy places the photo back beside my makeup kit.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure? Aren’t you meant to be going out for your dad’s annual birthday dinner?”

Shit.

I rush to my feet, my stool rolling along the tiled floor behind me. “I forgot.” Well, not entirely. I remembered when I was at home getting ready for work. Then the birthday cake we had in the break room was another reminder… Until Skylar’s family decided to bump up the private viewing to tomorrow—Saturday—even though my dad usually finds a gentle approach to guide mourners away from weekend services for the sake of our sanity.

“Go.” Ivy jerks her head toward the hall. “I can return Skylar to the cool room. If I need help I’ll ask the new guy.”

“You really need to stop calling him that.” I hustle to the stainless-steel counter where I place my face shield before tugging off my blue surgical clothes shield to dump in the trash with my face mask. “Hugo has been here two months. I think that warrants you learning his name.”

She shrugs. “Two months too long if I’m being honest. He’s not the most empathetic of men. He wasn’t built for this job.”

I should ask why, what has he said or done this time to warrant her wrath, but that’s going to have to be a conversation for next week. “We’ll discuss this on Monday. And putting Skylar away will only take a minute.” I rush back to the gurney and shove my foot down hard on the wheel brakes. “Has Dad said anything about dinner tonight? Does he think I forgot?”

“He hasn’t said a word to me.” Ivy sidles up beside me, helping direct the heavy weight inside the room-sized cooler. “Where are you two going?”

“I don’t know.” I slide Skylar between Jamar Starr, an elderly man who passed from a stroke, and Richard Noack, who suffered a traumatic construction injury. “We haven’t discussed dinner at all.”

Fuck. I left his present at home.

I follow Ivy out of the refrigeration unit and close the door behind us. “I haven’t even mentally prepped for socializing.”

She chuckles. “You know most people don’t have to prep before stepping into society. You seriously need to get out more. Why don’t you meet up with me and Allison for a drink after you finish with your dad?”

I shoot her a playfully scathing scowl.

Her laughter increases, ending in a dramatic sigh. “Why God gave you such beauty paired with a phobia of people is beyond me.”

“It’s not a phobia.” I pull off my surgical gloves and place them in the trash as I pass. “I just don’t like people.”

“Nobody does. At least the rest of us can stand interaction enough to have a life outside of work, though. You live for the isolation of the mortuary and resent leaving it.”

“You know me so well. But I now also have to be back at work first thing tomorrow to prep for Skylar’s viewing. So I have a legitimate excuse for an early night.”

“Fine. I’ll try again next week.” She flicks off the light as she follows me into the hall, then the reception area where Allison sits behind her desk, peering up at me from her computer.

“Fri-yay.” She beams.

“Yay.” I sarcastically wave imaginary pom-poms, not feeling the vibe.

She snorts. So does Ivy.

“I’ve never met anyone besides you who doesn’t live to get away from work.” Allison taps at her keyboard. “It’s unnatural.”

I shrug. “I enjoy my job.”

“So do I,” Ivy drawls. “But I also like to get tipsy, flirt with outrageously attractive men, and get laid.”

I cringe, not wanting to give her a warning about appropriate workplace conversations in a house of mourning.

“Don’t worry.” Alison gives me a knowing look. “Nobody else is in the building apart from your dad. Hugo left two minutes ago.”

“Well, wasn’t it lovely of him to say goodbye,” Ivy mutters.

“Be nice.” I continue to my father’s office across the far side of the reception area to rap softly on his closed door before letting myself in. “Are you ready for your birthday dinner?” I smile sweetly, pretending I didn’t forget the special occasion. “What restaurant did you decide on?”

He stands behind his large oak desk, pausing in the middle of pulling on his suit jacket as his eyes snap to mine. “Damn it, Liv. I’m sorry. Dinner completely skipped my mind. I already made plans.”

Made plans? Is he joking?

I bite back the accumulating guilt. “But we go out for dinner on your birthday every year.”

We’ve done it for as long as I can remember. Since I was a toddler. Even when we were in the deep trenches of grief over Mom’s death. It’s a tradition. The only one we have.

“I guess I’ve been distracted.” He winces. “I didn’t even realize it was my birthday until Ivy brought out the cake this morning.”

He’s definitely not joking.

We’ve both thrown ourselves so deep into the trenches of work life that his birthday became nonexistent.

“It’s okay.” I fake a smile. “We can reschedule for tomorrow night. What do you have planned?”

“It’s nothing.” He adjusts the collar of his business shirt to sit perfectly atop his jacket. “Just a casual business meeting.”

After hours? On his birthday?

Is this a date? Like a date-date? The first non-business-related interaction with a female since Mom passed?

It’s about damn time. Seven years to be exact. Yet, the secrecy stings.

“I’m really sorry, fragolina. Can I get a rain check?” His use of the Italian childhood endearment only makes this situation worse. “I’m running late.”

He crosses the room and squeezes my arm, not waiting for a response before he glides past me and enters the reception area where Ivy remains chatting to Allison. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.” He waves us farewell and continues to the front door.

“Bye.” Ivy looks at me in confusion.

“Have a great night.” Allison’s gaze finds mine as soon as he’s gone. “Aren’t you and Carlo?—”

“No.” I slump against his office doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. “Apparently this year he has a better offer.”

Allison grins. “Does old man Pelosi have a date?”

“He’s not old,” Ivy scoffs as she glides behind the reception desk to close the door to the admin storage room. “That man is in his prime. If I were ten years older…”

“Ew.” I shudder. “If you were ten years older you still wouldn’t have been born when he graduated college.”

She rolls her eyes. “Exaggerate much?”

“Grave rob much?” I shoot back.

“Wasn’t that in the job description?” She grins. “Besides, I like ’em mature.”

Allison snorts. “Babe, you need to like ’em when they still have full function of their anatomy.”

“Whoa.” I raise my voice. “Please remember that’s my father we’re talking about.”

“Your hot father,” Ivy mumbles under her breath.

I ignore her and retrieve my cell from my pants pocket, navigating to an app that’s sat dormant on the device for years.

My dad made me download a tracker when I got my license, stating it was a great safety tool—not that I ever went anywhere other than school or home. But it gave me the same access to his location, too. And from the look of the moving icon on the local street map before me, it still does.

“What’s got you so invested in your cell all of a sudden?” Ivy approaches and peers down at my screen. “Are you spying?”

“Maybe a little.” I keep an eye on the tiny dot indicating his whereabouts as it moves, taking a left out of our parking lot, then slowly inching down to the end of the road.

“I don’t know what’s more depressing.” Allison stands and plucks a wilted rose from the large arrangement of office flowers beside her computer. “Ivy having a boner for your dad or you stalking his first date in ninety-five years.”

“Please never mention my dad and boner in the same sentence again,” I mutter. “Can you believe he ditched me?”

“I know, right? Does he not realize his birthday dinner is the only time you dare to leave your isolation bubble?” She launches the rose into the trash bin under her desk.

“Very funny.” I roll my eyes. “Also very accurate. But this is out of character.”

Ivy shrugs. “He has been acting a little off lately.”

“Off how?” I ask.

“I dunno. Distracted. Tired.”

“Maybe Mr. P has been dishing out the monster D to a lucky lady.” Allison hauls her handbag onto her shoulder and scrounges inside until she pulls out a jangling set of keys. “I’m sure sex has to be quite the ordeal for someone his age.”

Ivy scoffs. “You’d be surprised. I once slept with a?—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “And my dad isn’t that old. He isn’t even fifty yet.” Although, now that I think about it, he seemed a hell of a lot younger last year.

Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis.

“He’s probably just catching up with friends.” Allison continues her end of day routine, perfectly aligning the four mauve waiting room chairs that match the feature wall behind, before tidying the grief pamphlets on the glass coffee table in the middle of the room.

“Yeah.” Ivy nods and saunters to the hall to switch off the lights. “Friends with vaginas.”

I hang my head. “I give the universe permission to swallow me whole.”

“Do you know who else is probably going to swallow?—”

“Ivy,” Allison and I snap at the same time.

Well, I snap. Allison’s reprimand is mostly smothered by an encouraging chuckle.

“Jesus, woman. You need to get laid.” I wave a hand in Ivy’s direction. “Whatever this is, isn’t healthy.”

She laughs as she walks for the front door. “Are you going to stalk him?”

I shrug, following after her.

“And if so, can I come with?” She waggles her brows.

“Do you really think I’m going to encourage your unhinged fascination with my father?”

“It was worth a try.”

All three of us file out of the two-story building and I lock the door behind us.

We say our goodbyes, my only friends driving from the parking lot while I remain in my idling car, the map on my cell screen haunting me.

Dad stops a few blocks away at a bar I can barely recall noticing, let alone frequenting. I stare at his little dot, my stomach churning.

I don’t care if he’s dating. I’d actually prefer him having someone to ease his loneliness instead of his out-of-business hours being spent alone.

What I don’t appreciate is how he might be hiding it from me out of fear of my reaction.

It doesn’t take a lot of mental debate to justify following him.

I only want to confirm my suspicions. Take a quick peek at the woman in question. That way I can ruminate on the situation over the weekend and come up with a plan to broach the subject.

He needs to know he doesn’t have to keep a relationship from me. That I’ll support him no matter what.

So I trek the same path, drenched in social awkwardness but not feeling an ounce of guilt as I slowly push through the front door of a darkened dive bar, the sound of lively chatter and clinking glasses flooding my ears.

I pause a few feet inside to scan my surroundings, the dim lighting casting a shadow over the room as an eclectic mix of patrons occupy mismatched chairs and booths. It’s not crowded by any means, but to this queen of introversion it’s a slippery slope into a building nightmare.

“Excuse me. Can I get past?” a female murmurs behind me.

“Sorry.” I sidestep, moving out of her way.

“It’s no problem.” The blonde smiles and sashays ahead in a short skirt and long-sleeved blouse that has the bar’s logo emblazoned on the back.

I dawdle after her, my anxiety meter sliding into unwelcome territory as I dart my gaze around.

Two women cackle loudly from a booth to my left. A bunch of barely legal guys crowd a table near the front window. A glass smashes somewhere behind me. A loud curse follows.

I shouldn’t be here. And I can’t see my father anywhere. I do, however, make eye contact with a burly bearded guy with tattooed arms twice the size of my thighs and a lascivious smirk that irks me enough to snap my gaze back down to my phone.

I check the location app again as I walk for the bar. My father’s dot and mine are directly on top of each other. He’s here. Somewhere. I just?—

I smack into a solid surface. A man, judging by the grunt of impact.

“I’m sorry.” I fumble to catch my phone, the stranger’s warm hands quickly cupping mine to grasp the device before it falls.

“Looking for someone?” he asks, his voice deeply delicious.

I keep my head bowed, not wanting to engage, and instead focus on his polished leather shoes. “Forgive me. I should’ve been watching where I was going.”

“No forgiveness necessary as long as I can get your name.”

I cringe, cursing the idiocy of my spying plan and how deep it’s taken me into the trenches of society. I really don’t like people. But I was raised to have impeccable manners, so I give an awkward smile and raise my gaze, taking in the expensive tailored suit. Black on black. No tie. The top two buttons of his collared shirt undone.

My attention climbs past a chiseled jaw with the faintest hint of dark-blond stubble to become ensnared on the darkest brown eyes peering back at me.

I blink. Twice.

Goddamn. His face matches the deliciousness of his voice—tousled dirty blond hair, warm tan skin, and a mouth that could inspire a wealth of wet dreams. Mine salivates for some ludicrous reason, and I suddenly become religious. There’s no way those plush lips weren’t sculpted by a god.

I clear my throat. “Ollie,” I blurt. “My name, it’s… Ollie.”

Ollie? Really?

I’ve never been Ollie in my life.

Olivia, yes. Liv, definitely.

Olivia Cassandra Pelosi whenever I’m in trouble? Absolutely.

But never, ever Ollie unless, apparently, I slip into an alternate universe where my grown ass can’t handle basic brain function around a handsome man.

“Nice to meet you, Ollie.” He flashes a subtle smirk, heavenly enough to create a slight dimple in his right cheek. “Let me buy you a drink.”