Take the Chance (Top Shelf Romance #9) - Brittainy Cherry Page 0,14

knew how to smile at all. “You want to know how I really feel?”

No.

Yes.

Um, maybe?

He didn’t give me a chance to answer before he continued to speak. “I think it’s absurd to sell tickets to a funeral service. I find it ridiculous to profit from a man’s death, turning his final farewell into a three-ring circus. I think it’s terrifying that individuals paid extra to have access to a VIP gathering afterward, but then again, people paid to sit on the same couch Jeffrey Dahmer sat upon. I shouldn’t be surprised by humans at all, but still, each day they tend to shock me with their lack of intelligence.”

“Wow…” I smoothed out my white dress and swayed back and forth. “You really didn’t like him, did you?”

His stare dropped to the ground before he looked back up at me. “Not in the least.”

I looked out into the darkness of the night, staring up at the stars. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How one person’s angel could be another’s biggest demon.”

He wasn’t interested in my thoughts, though. He moved back to the door and started banging again.

“Maktub.” I smiled.

“What?”

“Maktub. It means all is written, that everything happens for a reason.” Without much thought, I extended my hand out toward Graham. “I’m Lucy, by the way. Short for Lucille.”

He narrowed his eyes, not amused. “Okay.”

I giggled and stepped in closer, still holding my hand out. “I know sometimes authors can miss out on social cues, but this is the moment when you’re supposed to shake my hand.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Surprisingly, that’s exactly when you’re supposed to shake a person’s hand. “

“Graham Russell,” he said, not taking my hand. “I’m Graham Russell.”

I lowered my hand, a sheepish grin on my lips. “Oh, I know who you are. Not to sound cliché, but I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read every word you’ve ever written.”

“That’s impossible. There are words I’ve written that have never been published.”

“Perhaps, but if you did, I swear I’d read them.”

“You’ve read The Harvest?”

I wiggled my nose. “Yes…”

He smiled—no, it was just a twitch in his lip. My mistake.

“It’s as bad as I think it is, isn’t it?” he asked.

“No, I just…it’s different than the others.” I chewed my bottom lip. “It’s different, but I can’t put my finger on why.”

“I wrote that one after my grandmother passed away.” He shifted his feet around. “It’s complete shit and should’ve never been published.”

“No,” I said eagerly. “It still stole my breath away, just in a different kind of way—and trust me, I’d tell you if I thought it was complete trash. I’ve never been a good liar.” My eyebrows wiggled and my nose scrunched up as I moved on my tiptoes—the same way Mama used to—and went back to staring up at the stars. “Have you thought of planting a tree?”

“What?”

“A tree, in honor of your father. After someone close to me passed away, she was cremated, and my sister and I planted a tree with her ashes. On holidays we take her favorite candy, sit beneath the tree, and eat the candy in her honor. It’s a full circle of life. She came in as energy of the world, and went back into it as the same.”

“You’re really feeding into those millennial stereotypes, aren’t you?”

“It’s actually a great way to preserve the beauty of the environment.”

“Lucille—”

“You can call me Lucy.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Lucy is a name for a child. If you ever truly want to make it in the world, you should go by Lucille.”

“Noted. If you ever want to be the life of the party, you should consider the nickname Graham Cracker.”

“Are you always this ridiculous?”

“Only at funerals where people have to buy tickets.”

“What was the selling price?”

“They ranged from two hundred to two thousand dollars.”

He gasped. “Are you kidding me? People paid two thousand dollars to look at a dead body?!”

I ran my hands through my hair. “Plus tax.”

“I’m worried about the future generations.”

“Don’t worry, the generation before you worried about you, too, and it’s obvious you’re a bright, charming personality,” I mocked.

He almost smiled, I thought.

And it was almost beautiful.

“You know what, I should have known you didn’t write that eulogy based on how it ended. That was a huge clue that it wasn’t written by you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I actually did write that eulogy.”

I laughed. “No, you didn’t.”

He didn’t laugh. “You’re right, I didn’t. How did you know?”

“Well…you write horror and thriller stories. I’ve read every single one since I was eighteen, and they never ever end