over my head.
I reach inside the vehicle for my keys and bag, slam the door, push the lock button and make a mad dash for the passenger side of Samuel’s car. He tries to hold up his jacket, but with the amount of rain falling from the angry sky, it’s no use. We’re both soaked in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting drenched as he holds the door open for me, trying to shield me from the rain with his jacket and body. Inside the car, I shake like a dog. There’s no use trying to preserve his expensive leather seats at this point. I’m soaked. He’s soaked. There’s water everywhere.
The driver’s door opens and he jumps inside, tossing his jacket onto the back seat. Samuel grumbles under his breath, something about dry cleaning and car details, but I don’t really pay much attention. Instead, my eyes are locked on his shirt. Specifically, the way his crisp white dress shirt molds wetly to his torso. I can see his undershirt beneath it, but it does nothing to prevent the material from casting to his upper body.
My mouth waters and I glance away.
He fires his much newer car to life and cranks up the warm air. “Let’s get you home,” he says, his voice sounding…deeper.
I can only nod as images of his arms parade through my mind like the opening scene of a porno.
When he doesn’t pull out of the parking spot, I finally glance his way. His eyes are locked on me, on my…chest. Glancing down, that’s when I realize I’m soaked clean through, my blue tank top no longer flowy and light. Instead, it clings seductively to my body, giving him a clear view of my nipples. My very hard nipples.
I look up, watching his throat work hard to swallow. He turns away from me, throws the car in reverse, and drives out of the lot. I take in his defined arms, his wet hair, and the hint of his sex position socks peeking out of his trousers. Even soaked, he looks hot. He shouldn’t look hot, but he does.
He always looks hot.
Dammit.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ll be diddling myself later tonight to images of Samuel Grayson.
Chapter Three
Samuel
Classical music softly plays in the sterile, cold room, as I prepare to embalm Mrs. Portman. Embalming is an art that requires a strong stomach, patience, empathy, and a special license. Mine hangs prominently on the wall by the door.
Did I always know I wanted to work with the dead? Not really. I always thought I’d be a dentist, but I quickly learned I much preferred deceased people to those living. I have a mortuary science degree and did my apprenticeship right here at this very funeral home under Ernest Hanson. His son, Rob, is also an embalmer, but I’m the one on-call most of the time. Aaron, Ernest’s grandson and the third generation Hanson mortician, chose not to seek that specific license, probably because it required more schooling and training, and less partying.
My career isn’t one most would consider on Career Day. It’s messy, potentially hazardous, and requires you dealing with people on the worst days of their lives. But believe it or not, I find it wildly fulfilling too. I help those people as they deal with their grief, preserving and presenting their loved ones the best way I can. The final time they will see their loved ones is in my hands, and I take this obligation very seriously.
I take everything very seriously.
Just as I make my incision, the intercom buzzes on the wall. “Samuel?” Elma’s gruff voice pipes through the room on this fine Friday morning.
“Yes?” I ask, holding my hand steady as I prepare to inject the preservation chemicals into the body via the embalming machine.
“Your sister is here. She says it’s important,” Elma replies.
I set my tools down, the process on hold for a few moments, and glance at the clock. It’s very rare that one of my siblings actually stops by the funeral home. Usually, they text, knowing I could be very busy at any point in the day. Worried something is wrong, I state, “Please send her down. I’ll meet her in the hallway.”
I don’t know which sister it is, but that doesn’t matter. If one of them is here, it’s important. I head over to the washing station and remove my gown, gloves, and mask. Once they’re disposed of, I scrub my hands and head toward the