Sunshine smiles politely. “If you leave your info, I will definitely get in touch with you about catering possibilities, but I can’t promise anything. I’m just starting out, so there’s not much wiggle room in the budget.”
He is kind. Too kind. And entirely unaware that beautiful women see that smile and immediately start planning hypothetical second marriages.
I close the filing drawer. Firmly.
Both of them startle and turn to look at me. I smile a perfectly polite smile. One that says I am absolutely mentally stable and not imagining how easily I could lift Mrs. Broussard by her polyester collar.
“Mrs. Broussard,” I say pleasantly, “I have your late… rock’s burial package information ready.”
“You’re a quiet one,” Mrs. Broussard says, squinting at me curiously.
I’m not quiet. I just don’t flirt with random strangers at the funeral home where I work.
Sunshine coughs, breaking the awkward silence.
I watch them walk into the consultation room where Mrs. Broussard has the audacity to sit right next to Sunshine. She’s doing that shit on purpose.
Sunshine explains the different burial tiers in excruciating detail to a woman who obviously couldn’t care less.
Bronze.
Silver.
Gold.
You don’t need me to tell you that Mrs. Broussard chose the Bronze package.
Cheapskate.
Can’t she shell out the cash to give her husband’s cousin’s son’s pet rock a proper funeral?
Mrs. Broussard finally leaves after the world’s longest handshake with my future mate. The fact that she left alive and not as a reanimated corpse is a testament to my self-control.
I return to the showroom with Sunshine watching me, half-curious and half-amused.
“The urns were already organized by serial number,” he comments nonchalantly.
“I know, but this looks better,” I explain.
He hums in agreement. “That is an upgrade,” he says, walking closer.
His omega scent flows around me, sweet and warm like honey. My instincts perk up immediately like an overprotective guard dog.
“Are you upset?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his head to study me.
“Nope,” I answer, popping the p so he knows how not upset I am.
“Were you jealous of Mrs. Broussard?”
I cross my arms over my own chest, mimicking his stance.
“I don’t like when people make assumptions about you that aren’t true,” I say carefully.
“What assumptions?” he asks, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“That you’re available.”
He steps closer, his scent growing stronger and clouding my mind.
