No car.
Dead bodies.
NO CAR.
Paige looked down at her bright blue silk blouse, the sleeves coming down to just above her elbows, and made sure that she was all in order. She’d gone with black pants instead of a skirt, and flat sandals instead of heels. Nothing too flashy.
“It’s now or never,” she said, walking up the steps to the porch and opening the door.
Tacky green-and-gold wallpaper covered the walls of the hallway. The carpet was a deep crimson, which really freaked her out. They could have picked any color carpet and they picked blood red?
So creepy.
A staircase stood directly in front of the door, and there was an open room to the right where a woman with short hair sat behind a desk talking on the phone.
“Yes, Mr. Landell,” she said, typing into her computer. “We have an available service on the twelfth. You can come in tomorrow at two to meet with Mr. Adams.”
She looked up at Paige and smiled, holding up a finger, and then looked back to her computer as she continued to type.
Paige took a closer look around the room as the woman wrapped up the phone call. The awful wallpaper had spilled into this room as well, the green and gold swirls not getting any better on closer inspection.
“How can I help you?” asked the woman as she stood up and walked around the desk.
She looked like she might be in her late thirties. She had a rather striking appearance. Her face screamed angles, with her sharp cheekbones and chin and the slanted cut of her short reddish-brown hair. She wore a lot of makeup, but she wore it in a flattering way, highlighting her features. She had massive perky breasts that defied gravity and she was taller than Paige.
Paige glanced down to the woman’s feet and saw four-inch black stilettos.
Now why is she allowed to wear heels and I’m not?
“I’m here for an interview with Mr. Adams.”
“Oh, he’ll be back any minute. I’m Tara, Tara Montgomery,” she said with her southern belle accent, sticking out her hand.
“Paige Morrison,” she said, shaking Tara’s hand.
“Oh, I’ve heard about you,” Tara said, giving her a big smile.
Something in Paige’s face must have dropped because Tara squeezed her hand before she let go.
“And I don’t believe any of it,” Tara said, shaking her head. “Some of these town people tend to be small-minded, but don’t you let it worry you. They weren’t that welcoming of me either when I moved down.”
“How long ago did you move here?”
“About three years.”
“And how long did it take them to warm up to you?”
Tara gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Any day now.”
The front door behind Paige opened and she turned to see the largest man she’d ever seen in her life. He was probably a foot taller than her and completely bald. There was a bright red tie around his big beefy neck, and his black suit jacket fit snuggly across his wide shoulders.
“Mr. Adams, this is Paige Morrison. She’s here for her interview,” Tara said.
He pulled out a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and rubbed it across his enormous forehead, up to the top of his head, and down to the back of his neck. He shoved it back into the inside of his jacket as he walked into the office.
“Ms. Morrison,” he said, sticking out his hand.
Paige grabbed it, thankful it wasn’t the same hand he’d just wiped his sweaty head with.
“If you’ll just come with me,” he said, walking to the closed doors next to Tara’s desk and sliding them open.
Paige followed him into a room that was just slightly bigger than Tara’s, but really not much better when it came to decorating. The wallpaper hadn’t followed them in here, but the god-awful carpet had.
“Please sit,” Mr. Adams said, gesturing to a chair while he walked around his desk and sat down. “So, Ms. Morrison, I hear you’re looking for a job.”
“Paige,” she said, crossing her legs.
“Paige,” he amended. “Brendan King said you might be able to help me with my new technological issue.”
“And what issue is that?”
“There is this thing that funeral homes are doing for services. It involves taking pictures and videos of the deceased and putting them to music.”
“A slideshow?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But maybe just a little bit more fancy. I would also like to update our prayer cards and booklets. Brendan said you’re a photographer.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, suddenly getting nervous.
If he wanted her to take pictures of dead bodies there was no way in hell she was going to take this job. What if they wanted to dress the deceased up in weird costumes? Like a picture album from beyond the dead?
“What did you have in mind?” she asked cautiously.
“I wanted to incorporate local scenery into the background of the pictures instead of the generic stuff that comes with the program. The people from around here are used to a more southern atmosphere. Eagles soaring over a mountain pass don’t really fit into that. I want to give them something in death that they had in life. For many of these people this area was their life,” he said, turning slightly in his chair.
“What else would the job entail?”
Please don’t say dead bodies. Please don’t say dead bodies.
“Updating the Web site and writing obituaries.”
Paige and her mother had looked up Adams and Family on the Internet to figure out what it was, and neither of them had been impressed with the Web site. It was outdated and boring.
“I could do that.”
“Then it’s settled. Tara will help you fill out the paperwork today and you can start tomorrow if you’re available.”
“I’m available,” Paige said more than a little overwhelmed.
This had been the shortest interview of her life, and Mr. Adams hadn’t looked at her résumé or even her work portfolio. He had no idea if she was any good or not. He was basing it all on a reference from one person.
Brendan King.
* * *
Brendan had been working on cars since he was six. Back then, it had always been under the supervision of his grandfather. Oliver would put a chair next to the car he was working on and point out every single part for Brendan. Oliver let him attempt to loosen the bolts, which he wasn’t able to do alone until he was ten. Oliver had been the only father figure Brendan had ever known, his real father having walked out on his mother before he’d been born.
Brendan’s mother, Claire King, had been a beautiful woman and the light of her parents’ world. She’d had a brilliant smile and an infectious laugh. When Brendan was six, Claire gave him a baby sister. That father was never talked about either. Well, at least not in the King household. As for the people of Mirabelle, they’d talked about that juicy bit of gossip for years, and it sometimes still came up in conversations. Some said he was one of the many tourists who came to the beach in the summer. Others said he was a married man from the area.
In school, Brendan had gotten into more fights than he could count. He had a temper and would snap when kids made fun of him and his sister. But the harsh gossip had stopped when Brendan was sixteen, because that was when Claire had died. By the time the doctors had found it, it had been too late. She’d only been diagnosed with breast cancer for seven months before it had killed her.
At his mother’s funeral, holding his little sister’s hand in his, Brendan had become an adult. He’d never turned back. Twelve years later, at the age of twenty-eight, he owned half of King’s Auto and his own house.
But at the moment he felt like he was fifteen again and in no control of his hormones, because he couldn’t get Paige Morrison out of his head. He kept seeing her in those sexy as hell shoes. Kept seeing her eyebrows bunch together before she went off on a rant. Kept seeing that pretty mouth of hers. And it was all messing with his head.
> “B.K.!” Greg called from the front. “Someone’s here to see you.”
Brendan turned around to the front of the garage to see Paige standing in the doorway wearing a frown. If only it were as easy as thinking about her to always make her appear.
He pulled his gloves off, sticking them in his back pocket as he walked toward her. He couldn’t help but smile as he took in her clothing. A pair of black pants covered her long legs and her red toes peeked out of a pair of flat sandals. She wore a bright blue shirt made of some satiny material that he wanted to reach out and rub between his fingers.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other, her frown still firmly in place.
“Alright,” Brendan said, gesturing to the empty office with his hand. He held the door open as she walked past him and he couldn’t help but stare at her hair. He hadn’t seen it down before, and today it flowed past the middle of her long, graceful back. It was chestnut brown, thick, and full of curls. He wanted to reach out and touch that too.
She turned to him as he shut the door behind them, her arms folded across her chest.
“How can I help you?” Brendan asked, leaning back against the wall.
“I don’t understand you,” she said, shaking her head, her mouth twitching.
“What is it you don’t understand?”
“You got me a job interview.”
“Yes.” He nodded.
“Why? Why did you get me a job interview?”
“Because you needed a job.” She was clearly agitated, and it was most definitely directed at him. “Are you angry with me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air.
“I don’t understand you,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward her. “You say that no one in this town will give you a chance, that no one in this town has been nice to you. Yet when someone does give you a chance,” he said, stopping in front of her, “when someone is nice to you, you get all uptight and agitated,” he said, reaching out and grabbing a piece of her hair, rubbing the soft curl between his fingers.
“W-what are you doing?” she asked, looking up at him alarmed.
“I noticed you didn’t wear those shoes of yours today,” he said, letting go of her hair.
“Yeah, well,” she said and shrugged, not finishing her sentence.
“And you wore pants,” he said, eyeing her legs.
“Stop that,” she said, putting her hand on his chest to push him away, but when she touched him, they both stopped and just stared at each other.
Her hand was pressed right above his heart, and warmth spread from her palm and long thin fingers, settling in his chest. He reached up and covered her hand with his, not letting her move it from his chest. She swallowed hard and continued to stare at his face.
“Did you get the job?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.
She nodded, breathing unevenly.
“You know, here in the South, we say ‘thank you’ for something like that,” he said giving her a slow smile.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Paige,” he said, leaning in closer, his eyes focused on her lips.
The door opened behind them, the blinds on the window hitting the glass as the door bounced against the wall. Paige and Brendan jumped apart as Oliver walked into the office.
Brendan would’ve kissed her; he’d only had to move in a few more inches and he would’ve done it. She would’ve let him too. He’d seen the desire in her eyes. It was the same desire he’d felt pounding through his entire body.
His grandfather had impeccable timing.
Oliver had a cell phone to his ear and an invoice in front of his face. He didn’t even notice Brendan and Paige until he looked up.
“See you then,” he said, ending the call. “Paige,” he said, putting his cell phone in his pocket. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I, uh, I came by to thank Brendan?” She said it like a question.
Brendan couldn’t help but smile at her inability to think properly.
“Thank him for what?” Oliver asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The, uh, job,” she said, still trying to find her bearings.
“You got a job? That’s great news,” Oliver said, giving Paige a genuine smile. “Did Brendan tell you about your car yet?”
“We didn’t get that far,” Brendan said.
“My car?” Paige said, coming back to herself.
“Yeah, we ordered the part. It’ll be in tomorrow morning and you should have your Jeep back by closing.”
“How much?” she asked, biting her lip.
“We’re looking at about five hundred for everything.”
Brendan watched as Paige’s whole face fell.
Oliver opened his mouth to say something but Brendan cut him off. “We can set up a payment plan,” he said, taking a step toward her.
Oliver glanced at Brendan, a dumbfounded look on his face.
“When do you start your job?” Brendan asked.
“Tomorrow,” she said, looking back and forth between the men. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“It isn’t a problem,” Brendan said, shaking his head. “We’ll discuss terms when you pick up your car tomorrow.”
“Brendan, I—”
“It’s done, Paige. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“No problem.”
“I have to go,” she said, backing up toward the door. “My dad needs his car back. I’ll, uh, hear from you tomorrow?” she asked, looking at Brendan.
“Tomorrow.” He nodded.
“What was that?” Oliver asked as the door shut behind Paige. “Payment plan?”
“She’s going to pay us back.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that. But if this is one of your new ideas for the garage I’m going to have to veto it immediately,” Oliver said, frowning.
“We aren’t going to offer it to everyone,” Brendan said, shaking his head. “Just her.”
“Just her,” Oliver repeated, his frown slowly turning into a smile. “You know I wasn’t that engrossed in that invoice when I walked into the office. I saw you two spring apart like the other was on fire.”
Brendan had no doubt about that.
* * *
“You almost kissed him?”
“I didn’t almost kiss him,” Paige said as she paced the floor in her bedroom. “He almost kissed me.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re going to try to discuss semantics with me?” Even though Abby was almost one thousand miles away, Paige could see her as if she was standing in the same room, waving her arm in the air in exasperation.
“It’s not semantics. It’s what happened.”
“Did you attempt to move away?”
“Well no, but—”
“No. No buts. You would’ve let him kiss you. You wanted him to kiss you.”
“You’re like a dog with a bone.”
“And you’re completely delusional. Just admit it. You wanted your hot mechanic to kiss you.”
“Brendan. His name is Brendan. And as I’ve told you a dozen times, he is not mine.”
“But he will be. Just give it time.”
Chapter Three
A Harlot at the Funeral Home
On Wednesday, Tara dragged Paige into the kitchen for a cup of coffee before she gave Paige the full tour of the Adams and Family funeral home.
The kitchen had black-and-white tile on the floors and counter. The cabinets were old fashioned but the white paint on them was fresh. An industrial refrigerator stood in one corner and an old stove in the other.
“We make punch and coffee for the funerals, but all of the food is catered,” Tara said, handing Paige a green coffee cup. “So mainly staff uses the kitchen,” she said as she poured both cups full of the steaming liquid. “Coffee, milk, and sugar are communal,” she said, opening the fridge and pulling out a gallon of milk.<
br />
As they fixed their coffee, a small boney woman with streaky gray hair came into the kitchen. She put a bag in the refrigerator and turned around.
“Hi, Verna,” Tara said brightly. “This is Paige Morrison. She’s going to be making those new tributes.”
Verna looked at them, a scowl on her face. She looked Paige up and down, her eyes focusing on Paige’s feet. Paige was wearing her bright red peep-toed heels, which she’d paired with a conservative stretchy black dress that hit her just below the knee. The only reason she’d worn flats the day before was because her feet had still been killing her from her trek along the highway, and she might have been a little self-conscious after Brendan’s comment. But when she’d seen Tara’s four-inch heels the day before, she’d decided she wasn’t going to let anyone mess with her shoes. Some things were sacred, and Paige’s shoe choice was one of them.
“Only harlots wear red shoes,” Verna said, pointing to Paige’s feet before she walked out of the kitchen.
Paige wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream. And who said “harlot” anymore?
“Verna Wisenbacker is a real joy to work with,” Tara said. “She’s terrible to everyone except Missy.”
“Who’s Missy?” Paige asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
“The assistant funeral director.”
“And what does Verna do?”
“She’s in charge of the finances. If you ever need a new stapler, be prepared for a five-week waiting period, because she’ll make you fill out enough paperwork to keep you busy for that long. And I’m just giving you fair warning,” she said, pointing to the fridge. “Never, and I mean never, touch anything in there that’s Verna’s.”
“Noted.”
“Now onto happier things. These are from Café Lula,” she said, opening a box on the counter. “These are orange and these are strawberry,” she said, pointing to the different scones. “Both will be heaven in your mouth.”
Yeah, Paige and Tara were going to be friends. Not only did Tara have a bit of a smart mouth, but she’d also provided Paige with caffeine and showed her where the sweets were.
“Oh my gosh,” Paige moaned as she took a bite of the orange scone. “This is incredible.”
“Just wait until you try their rhubarb and strawberry cobbler with fresh ice cream,” Tara said as she bit into her own scone, an extreme look of pleasure on her face.
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