And now, here he is. In that gorgeous funeral suit. Black, sleek, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders.
I shift again. Yep, there’s a throb starting. In a church. At a funeral.
Sweet lord.
Did I just . . . address Him directly? In here?
Thelastthing I need is for god to think I’m trying tostart a conversation.
At the podium, Edward arranges his notes. Against the backdrop of the altar, he looks even more intimidating than usual. Like he was handpicked by the holy ghost’s personal PR team to stand in churches.
The silence stretches as he adjusts the microphone.
My breath catches, and it feels like the whole congregation’s holding theirs too. Probably because they’re all noticing how stupidly good he looks. Even Jesus up on the cross looks a little envious.
Then he speaks. His voice rolls out, low and smooth, all about Bernard. I’m trying not to stare at the giant portrait of the old guy looming over the altar. Is he watching me from the afterlife?
I mean, hewould, wouldn’t he?
The man spent his entire life watching women. Death is unlikely to have improved his voyeuristic tendencies.
I glance up at the ceiling, just in case, half expecting to see his ghost’s face squished up against the stained glass, winking at me.
What if he can travel now? Like his soul can just zip around wherever it wants? What if he shows up at my house and watches me when I’m using my vibrator?
Theseare the real theological questions no one’s addressing.
I swallow hard and force my gaze back to Edward.
His deep, commanding voice rolls through the church. Something about Bernard revolutionizing surgical techniques.
The sunlight streaming through the stained glass catches the sharp angles of his face, casting dramatic shadows that only enhance his jawline.
No one should look this attractive while talking about death.
“. . . his charm and dedication to his patients . . .” Edward’s voice fills the church, steady and somber.
Pervert who watched BritShop at 3 a.m.,my brain helpfully translates.
“His unwavering commitment . . .”
Pervert who may have passed watching me demonstrate bidets.
I press my lips together to keep the laugh bubbling in my throat from escaping.
Stop it. You shouldn’t be having these thoughts in church.
And I definitely shouldn’t be having these other thoughts—the far less appropriate ones about Edward.
I shift uncomfortably, my dress catching on the pew as I glance around at the congregation.
“Above all,” Edward continues, “Bernard believed in maintaining the highest standards of personal dignity. He emphasized the importance of hard work, self-control, and discipline—qualities he took great care to instill in each of us.”
A snort rips out of me before I can stop it. Not a cute, dainty one either—oh no, this is a full-on, demon-pig-at-the-trough explosion. David Attenborough would narrate it in hushed awe.
Self-control?Bernard?
Edward’s head snaps up like he heard a gunshot. His eyes lock on me. Mum jabs me hard in the ribs. Heads swivel,Exorcist-style, as the congregation hunts for the loose farm animal. The old lady in front of me might’ve just given herself whiplash.
