Mourning Wood - Heather M. Orgeron Page 0,4

a booted foot on the ground, shielding my eyes from the sun to make out the sign posted in front of the Victorian style mansion. Daigle Family Funeral Services. Don’t be caught dead any place else.

I look back down at the napkin, comparing the address again 2222 Main Street. This is what the motherfucker was hiding. It’s a goddamn funeral home.

Fuming, I wrench my phone from my back pocket. “You’re an asshole,” I growl before he has a chance to greet me.

His answering groan is one part dread, two parts laughter. “Mornin’.”

“Are you serious with this shit?” I slam the truck door harder than necessary. “This is a joke, right?”

“’Fraid no—”

After a series of garbled noises, the voice on the other end of the line changes to one a little more cheery and decidedly feminine. “Hey, Wyatt!” Kate pipes.

“I can’t—” I start, my breathing escalating at the mere thought of spending my days surrounded by a bunch of dead people.

“You can,” she counters. “Please? Please, please, please…” she drags that last one out for effect. “The Daigles are like family, and they really need the help. Plus, it’ll be good for you too. Please say you’ll do it… for me?”

I don’t answer right away, too focused on the pit of dread unfurling throughout my chest. I don’t think I can respond without losing my breakfast right here on the sidewalk.

“Anyway, you owe me for getting my husband piss drunk,” she continues. “I had to wake up with your niece four times last night all on my own.”

The bitter taste of bile fills my mouth. “I don’t think you understand—”

“You listen to me, Wyatt Landry. You’re being hired to put up walls and build fucking pews, not embalm bodies. You don’t even have to see any dead people…unless you want to,” she adds.

“I don’t.”

“Great. Then you won’t. Don’t be a pussy.”

“Gotta go,” I mumble when a vision in heels and a form-fitting black skirt walks out the front door. My cousin-in-law’s still gabbing when I drop the phone unceremoniously through the passenger window onto the front seat.

“Mr. Landry?” the blonde Barbie calls, making her way down the cobblestone path, her hips swaying side to side with a confidence few women possess. It’s incredibly sexy. As she approaches, her features become clear—ice blue eyes, pillowy lips, dimples for days… She extends a manicured hand in my direction. “I’m Whit—”

“Whitney,” I rasp, before clearing the sudden frog from my throat. I can feel my own eyes practically bugging out of my head.

Talk about a blast from the past.

“Wyatt?” I swear I see flames shoot out of her eyes and smoke billowing from her ears. I’m scrambling to clear my head and think straight, because I can’t recall having done anything deserving of such ire. “There’s been a mistake,” she blurts out, yanking her hand from mine. I swear I hear her mumble something about murder and new best friend beneath her breath. “I’m sorry. I was actually just coming out to tell you that the job has already been filled.” With that she spins on her toes, fully intending to take off with a hasty retreat.

Before I think better of it, I reach for her wrist. “I don’t think so.”

What am I doing? Isn’t this what I wanted…a chance to get out of this shady-ass deal?

“Excuse me?”

I retrieve the folded paperwork from my back pocket and hold out the fully executed document for her examination. It’s already been signed by a Mr. Hank Daigle. Now, I don’t know if he’s her husband or father, but a quick glance at her left hand shows no ring, so I’m feeling pretty damn hopeful—and suddenly desperate for this job. My ego won’t stand for being so easily dismissed—self-preservation be damned. “I’ve been contracted to restore the chapel. I’m sorry if that’s awkward for you, but I’m a man of his word and have every intention to make good on my promise.” I glance back down at the paper. “To…Hank.”

“Awkward for me?” she asks, incredulous, closing the distance between us. “What about you? Pretty sure you were there too.”

I don’t even attempt to fight the crooked smile tugging at my lips. “And where might you be referring?”

Her blue eyes dart around the street. Dear God, she’s beautiful when she’s angry. I’ve only ever seen the woman tipsy and horny. And, well…embarrassed. She wouldn’t even spare me a glance the day of the wedding, a brush-off that still stings, to this day. “You know where,” she mutters.

“The dumpster?”