It's A Wonderful Midlife Crisis (Good To The Last Death #1) - Robyn Peterman Page 0,2

someone. Reattaching a dead woman’s hand wouldn’t have been my first choice, but it was the only one I had at the moment.

“Here goes nothing,” I mumbled as I bit down on my lip and covered the stump with the goopy glue.

She watched in fascination as I then picked up her hand and connected it to her stump.

“I think I have to put pressure on it for at least one minute for it to hold. I’m pretty sure that’s what the guy in the commercial did. But to be safe, we’ll do it for two.

She looked at me. I looked at her. The silence was awkward and loud. If I was imagining the bizarre exchange, I needed some help immediately. Twice I thought I should start a conversation to be polite. I was Southern. It was in my DNA.

“Today’s my birthday,” I told her with a weak smile that I was fairly sure resembled a grimace. I was still hoping she wasn’t going to bite me. I needed to stop watching zombie movies.

The woman kind of moan-grunted in response. Since my life might still be on the line, I nodded and thanked her. Feeling the need to smack myself in the head, I refrained. If I dropped her hand, all hell could break loose.

After what felt like two hours, the two minutes were up. I stepped back and waited for her hand to crash to the floor. It didn’t. She held it up and moved her fingers. I was shocked that the superglue worked on her tendons too. Wait. Attributing normal to the impossible was nuts—like me.

“Wow,” I said with a surprised laugh. “Can’t believe that worked. Does it hurt?

As expected, she said nothing that made any sense, but she did give me a smile before she faded away.

I sat down heavily on the kitchen chair and mentally went over what had just happened. It was outlandish and unreal, and I couldn’t even talk to anyone about it. I was on my own in Crazytown.

I supposed if there was anything to be thankful for, it was that she wasn’t a flesh-eating zombie. She was just a dead person with a problem and I’d solved it for her. Note to self… stop watching horror movies.

The knock at my door pulled me back from my screwy introspective thought. Who was here at seven in the morning? The ghosts never knocked. They just appeared when they felt like it. I peeked through the peephole and audibly sighed in agony.

It was Stan—my latest mistake. Actually, my only mistake in a seriously long stretch of celibacy, but definitely a mistake.

Getting back into the dating scene twelve months after Steve died was too soon. I wasn’t ready for it. However, the bottle of wine I’d consumed at Patsy’s Bar and Grill last night didn’t agree with my assessment—not that it was a date. It was a booty call that never should have happened. Ever. At least I didn’t stay the night. A walk of shame at three in the morning was far classier than when the sun was out.

I’d already done surgery on a dead woman. It wasn’t fair that I now had to deal with Stan.

Happy birthday to me…

“Hi Stan,” I said as I opened my door enough to be polite, but not far enough to invite him in.

“Hello Daisy, you’re looking lovely today,” he said with an overly confident smile on his handsome face.

Glancing down, I realized I was still barely dressed. I hopped behind the door and poked my head out.

“Stan, what can I do for you? It’s kind of early.”

“I’m really sorry about last night, Daisy,” Stan said without any hint of apology in his perfectly cultured voice. I was sure he’d dressed in the pink polo shirt and starched madras pants with painstaking care. “I can usually go longer than that.”

Kill me now.

“It was great,” I lied and gave him a smile that I prayed didn’t look like I was constipated.

Stan was a nice guy with a job. He was extremely good-looking and had the personality of a box of hair. What on earth had I been thinking? Actually, it was the merlot that had done my thinking for me. I was an idiot. Casual sex wasn’t in my wheelhouse. I knew better. And accountants in madras pants didn’t equate to good sex—or even good conversation.

“I was just wondering when we had intimate relations last night… Did you… umm?”

“No. No, I didn’t, but no worries,” I insisted politely while trying desperately