Pushing Up Posies

by Eve Langlais

  Her nose wrinkled. “That’s an odd way of referring to them.”

  “What else would you suggest?” he asked as they walked past doors framed by frosted windows. No peeking inside on this level.

  “Clients.”

  “Rather impersonal.”

  “So are ‘potentials.’”

  “Our focus group on level two said it tested more positive.”

  “Wait, you have a focus group?”

  “Since week two.”

  “How long have you been in business?”

  “Almost five weeks.”

  “So since the night you moved in, basically?”

  “The very next day.”

  His step slowed at the far end before a wall of frosted glass with a door. It opened at his approach. She entered a lavish space, carpeted, with two couches and a fat chair around a low window inlaid with a mosaic. Bleached wood paneling. A skylight that streamed daylight and a desk so sleek and clean she wanted to stroke it.

  “You have a really nice office.” She wondered where he’d hide her. Maybe in another closet.

  “This isn’t my office. This is where you’ll be working. You will handle people arriving for appointments with me.”

  She gaped at the space that was five times the size of her last reception post. Not only did she have a big desk and windows, she had her own kitchenette, bathroom, and even a couch, with a television for when she took her break. In many respects, it was nicer than her apartment.

  “This is my office,” he announced. He swung open a pair of doors at the far end, and she found his space was even bigger and more lavish.

  Five minutes later, she sat at her new workstation, staring at the screen for her laptop, which showed Mr. Reaper’s schedule as clear until eleven. Surely, she should be doing something? The place was immaculate. The phone on the desk never rang. No papers required filing.

  The only thing she had to deal with was curious faces. They kept popping in without her noticing. Empty room one second and the next, poof, someone in a robe was standing there.

  The first time she squeaked, they squeaked, and Reaper came bolting out.

  He took one look at her and the person who snuck in before grumbling, “Sending a memo now.”

  A memo about what? She had two more unexpected visitors pop in then finally her first real job of the day.

  Murray Franklin entered, his hoofs well done, the pants had a really good hind leg shape to them. The horns could have been a bit longer though, given the satyr look he was obviously going for.

  Upon seeing her, he leered and grabbed his crotch.

  “Do that again and I’ll have you arrested for behaving indecently.” Posie wasn’t about to let anyone think that working at a dating agency made her receptive to any kind of gross behavior.

  “Don’t be like that, baby. You know you want this.” He gyrated his hips.

  “Not one bit.” To soften the blow, she added, “I’m sure one day you’ll find someone who thinks your tiny horns”—she stressed—“are adorable.”

  “Little?” He uttered a bleat and slapped his hands over his forehead.

  “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll see if Mr. Reaper is available.”

  The afternoon didn’t get any less strange. A virtual parade of cosplaying people went by her desk that day and the next. Some less into the cosplay than others. One guy was actually rather handsome, if you ignored the fact he wore actual metal armor.

  He clanged quite a bit and wasn’t impressed when she said, “Do you need to oil the joints often?”

  She finished her first week and had to admit, while it started out slow, it did prove interesting. If hard to comprehend. Mr. Reaper didn’t really need her, but if he wanted that prestige and to pay her, she wouldn’t say no.

  She actually enjoyed it and did get a spurt of pleasure out of making the security guard flinch every morning when she uttered a bright and cheery, “Good Morning, Barry. Your scythe is looking mighty shiny today.”

  9

  The Devil’s plan worked. Brody managed to hire Posie, giving him all the opportunities needed to throw potential matches at her. The problem being, he had no idea who to start with. She’d shown no interest in any of his appointments thus far.

  He tended to have talks with first-timers to make sure they understood the rules. He flashed his scythe for good measure to make sure they understood the consequences if they fucked up.

  Not one of his clients got a second look or flirty smile from her. A few got verbally schooled. Posie might have that innate Canadian kindness that made her apologize all the time, but that didn’t stop her from putting people in their place.

  “Excuse me, Gallops All Night, but this location requires you wear pants. In your case, as you’re giving horses a bad name, you really shouldn’t be ignoring that rule.”

  She had a level of efficiency that didn’t go unnoticed. The Devil showed up after her first week on the job.

  “She is good at handling those fuckers,” Lucifer noted, having turned the wall in his office into a one-way mirror.

  “Only because she still thinks they’re costumes.” Which he didn’t understand at first. How could anyone be that oblivious? Then he used the internet he’d heard so much about. Once he saw examples of cosplay, he understood her doubt.

  Which made him wonder, if she didn’t believe, then were they wasting their time with veneers of magic over their true natures? Perhaps the humans would be like Posie and think it was all fake.

  For his part, Brody had stopped wearing his hood around her. No point. She’d accuse him of looking like Death again. She had no idea how accurate that was.

  With her not showing interest in any of the current potentials, that left reapers. Lucifer wanted her with someone of a higher echelon than simple peon. That sounded like his lieutenants. He went through the list of his most trusted reapers. Joel. Barry. Julio. Maurice.

  All good men. But were they right for Posie? The Dark Lord being extremely interested in her case meant he couldn’t get this wrong.

  Perhaps if he got to know her a little better, more than what her file contained, he’d have a better feel for her needs. Which might be why he was knocking on her door at nine o’clock at night almost two weeks after she started working for him.

  She didn’t answer. Was she home? She had to be. He always knew when she left. Couldn’t seem to help himself. Her soul called out to him.

  Even now he could sense her on the other side of the door. Did she watch him? He pressed his eye to the peephole and heard her squeak.

  “I know you’re there.” He always knew when she was near. Felt her in a way he didn’t feel anyone else. “You can stop pretending.”

  “You do realize it’s kind of late.”

  “Late? It’s nine o’clock.”

  “Exactly,” was her pert reply. “I’m in my pajamas.”

  “And?”

  “A woman doesn’t simply open the door to strangers in her night clothes.”

  “But we’re hardly strangers.”

  “No, you’re my new boss, which means”—she yanked open the door—“we should set some boundaries. Starting with, once I leave the office, I’m done work for the day. So whatever it is you need will have to wait until tomorrow. At the office.”

  He blinked. “Did you just tell me fuck off and not knock on your door?”

  “Yes. But politely.”

  “What else?”

  “Any other concerns I have can be dealt with at the office. Tomorrow.” She went to close the door.

  He couldn’t help it. This constant failure to understand her grated. “Why are you so…so…” He struggled for a word.

  “Bitchy?”

  “I would have said standoffish,” he lied. The Devil surely smiled.

  “I don’t see the point in getting close to people.”

  “Why?” This seemed contrary to most humans he encountered. His observation showed they preferred to surround themselves with souls
. Even the useless ones.

  She shrugged. “I prefer the quiet.”

  Living in a guild for a few centuries, he’d not realized how enjoyable quiet could be until his apartment emptied of people coming and going. At the same time, the lack of noise deafened him when he sat on his couch—a comfortable thing of dark gray fabric with red and orange cushions. The colors drawing out the pattern in the rug. After Lucifer had shown him his new office, and sprung the secretary surprise, he’d returned to find it fully furnished. Thankfully not in the pink vomit Bambi covered the guild in.

  When he returned, he’d have to order lots of dark paint.

  If he returned. If he failed with Posie, the Dark Lord might not want him back.

  He’d not learned much about her other than she was extremely antisocial, even more than him, and liked the quiet. Did that include during sex?

  The thought took him so hard aback, he didn’t react in time, and the door gently shut in his face. With the coup de grace being the click of the deadbolt. Also known as the throwing down of the gauntlet.

  “It is on, my prickly flower.” He would find her not just a compatible sexual partner but a love match.

  10

  Despite her admonition to her new boss, the next morning when Posie opened her door to head out for work, he stood in the hall as if waiting for her.

  “Morning, Mr. Reaper.” She kept the greeting brisk as she locked her door and tugged the handle for good measure.

  She’d learned awhile ago that if she didn’t then she’d wonder if she’d actually locked it or closed it securely. It would weigh on her mind, making her almost sick with anxiety to the point she’d have to rush home early to check. Each time, her door was fine.

  As she turned back—because she couldn’t stare at her portal forever—she couldn’t miss the fact he wore the cloak, the fluid black fabric currently thrown over his shoulders, meaning she saw his actual form in its entirety. Wide as she expected, no sign of a paunch, his slim-fitting button-up shirt tucked into slacks. A casual yet clean look not marred at all by the combat boots that she’d wager were steel-toe. The belt and his buckle were the same black as the rest of his ensemble. Yes, all black. What a surprise. There was a surprising number of staff who dressed just as darkly. Such a somber impression for what should be a mood-elevating business.

  The very grim nature might be why she purposely did the opposite when she chose her own outfit for the day: a flowered bohemian-style skirt that flowed to her ankles, brown leather boots, a peasant style blouse in white, adorned with loops of chunky strung beads in every color. Over it, she wore a distressed jean jacket, and she carried a giant pink satchel.

  His brows rose. “Did I miss a memo on rainbow day?”

  “Did you forget about me saying no work until we’re at the office?” Her tone was sweet but firm.

  “I wasn’t talking to you about work. Just being neighborly. It is, after all, the Canadian way.”

  She side-eyed him as they waited for the elevator. Had he meant that as a dig? In her defense, he did rouse her more feisty side. She had her reasons for pushing him away. Yet, like a bad perm that you tried to straighten, he kept coming back. “You’re not Canadian, though.”

  “What can I say? You are contagious.”

  They entered the empty elevator cab, and their fingers bumped as they went to hit G for the ground floor. He wore gloves. Again. It made her wonder if he ever took them off. Did they hide something? Scars, perhaps?

  As she exited the building, the heavy clouds in the sky drew her attention. Rain for sure. Hopefully not before she managed to get to the underground and the subway that would take her downtown to her new office.

  A sleek car sat at the curb, black all over, shiny with tinted windows. Given the building they lived in, she was kind of surprised when a guy wearing a chauffeur’s uniform—in a shade of slate—popped out and opened the door, gesturing with a hand. “Ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not for me.” She began to walk away, only to hear Mr. Reaper clearing his throat.

  “The car is mine. And as you can see, there’s plenty of room for us both to ride to work.”

  “I don’t need a ride.” She clutched her bag to her chest. “Remember what I said about separation.”

  “This is just practicality. We’re both going in the same direction. Already wasting carbon. Or do you enjoy denying a needy person a seat on the subway?”

  She sucked in her lower lip. He did have a point. Still…that would put her awfully close to him.

  “What if,” he said, waving his driver off and standing by the open door, “I promise not to talk about work?”

  If he didn’t use the business as a topic, what did that leave? Could they travel in pure silence?

  Her lips opened to say no, only to halt as a cold drop of water landed on the tip of her nose. A glance upward at the heavy clouds and another drop made it clear she wouldn’t make it underground before the heavens let loose. Get wet or tolerate the boss in comfort?

  She was being stupid. “I accept your offer but must insist on sharing the cost of gas.”

  He snorted. “Of course you will.”

  She sat on the farthest end of the seat, knees together, hands on her lap, while he lounged on his side, blending in with the dark interior as if wreathed in smoky shadows. The rain dumped in hard, fat pellets the moment the car pulled from the curb. She’d made the right decision. Perhaps he’d work while they travelled. She could read the book she’d started.

  “Do you have any pets?”

  She hadn’t pulled her phone out quick enough. “No.”

  “Why not? Are you allergic?”

  “Are you?” she countered.

  “I don’t actually know.” He frowned.

  “How do you not know?” she couldn’t help but exclaim.

  “I’m not usually on the same plane as animals.”

  “Planes aren’t the only time you run into them.” She rolled her eyes. “And on planes they’re usually in cages. It’s part of the aviation rules I think.”

  His lips quirked. “You misunderstand. I meant to say…” He paused. “I’ve led a sheltered existence and haven’t really had a chance to encounter any animals in close quarters, although my glimpses while in public outdoor locations haven’t led to any issues.”

  Mr. Reaper was a seriously strange guy at times. She wanted to ask why he’d led a sheltered existence, but then he might misconstrue that as interest. The wrong kind of interest.

  “Best way to find out is visit a pet store. If your nose starts twitching when you enter, then chances are you’re allergic.”

  “I might try that. I hear the felines in this world hunt the rats instead of conspiring with them.” At her wide gaze, he grinned. “A jest.”

  “Are you always in character?” She had to ask because she’d noticed that some people took their outfits seriously. They even spoke differently, saying the most outrageous things at times, such as how their building was much better than the old guild, with its soot-covered stone.

  “I don’t think I understand the question.”

  “Forget it. It’s probably rude to ask.” She waved a hand and looked away, embarrassed.

  “You still believe I’m playing at death.”

  “Aren’t you?” She arched a brow.

  “I never play.”

  “Did you change your name to Reaper, or were you actually born with it?”

  “Depends on your definition of born. Are we talking physical birth or the one that comes after death?”

  “There you go again. Talking as if you’re really the Grim Reaper. Do you keep your scythe in the trunk?” She shouldn’t tease, but he kept asking for it.

  “Would you like to see it?”

  Given she’d been sassing him? “No, I don’t want to see your toy. What I’d like is to ride quietly to work. Maybe catch up on the news.” She waggled her phone.

  “You’re difficult to decipher.”

 
“It’s not your job to figure me out. I’m not one of your clients.”

  He leaned forward. “Would you like to be?”

  “No!” she exclaimed, perhaps a tad too vehemently. “I don’t believe in artificial relationships.” And then there was that whole birthday thing coming. She’d already sworn to herself she wouldn’t commit to anything until she turned thirty-seven. Not long now… The question being, would she live to thirty-eight?

  “So no matchmaking, but you are available?”

  “Not interested. My life is just fine the way it is,” she lied. It was boring and safe. And it would stay that way for the next few weeks. Then— She had to drag her mind away from that topic or she’d unravel it like a thread on a sweater. “If you’re so good at matchmaking, how come you’re single?”

  “Who says I am?” He had a rakish smile.

  “So you are dating someone?”

  His smirk disappeared. “No. Nor do I have any intention of starting.”

  “Again, you don’t see the irony of you being in charge of people’s happiness when you’re not into the idea yourself?”

  “Touché, Ms. Ringwald. May I call you Posie?”

  “No.”

  The car slid to a stop, and just as smoothly, he was out of the vehicle. He held out a gloved hand to assist her. She could have ignored it, but her Canadian kicked in and she grabbed hold, muttering a low, “Thanks.”

  “I’d say it was my pleasure, but you’d probably take offense.” He steadied her on the pavement.

  “Did you just insult me?”

  “Yes, but I did it politely. See, I am catching on.” He winked before he turned and strode away, not bothering to wait for her.

  She held her head high and pretended she wasn’t annoyed. She should be pleased he’d finally decided to leave her alone. Instead, she glowered. Especially given, even at this early hour, there were cosplayers out in full force. One that reminded her of a giant Groot but muddier. She wondered if he was the reason for more of those tree-dressing ladies who looked less like dryads and more like pinup girls for the Jolly Green Giant.

  By the looks of it they were straggling in from the mixer held the night before—the Spring Fling, despite it being November. It wouldn’t be the first time disheveled clients wandered in after a night of partying. They entered the building, but she never saw them leave. She didn’t know why or what happened with them. Perhaps they took off the costumes and donned the dark robes.