So I keep at it.

“County Coroner. That’s an unusual field of work. How’d you get into it?” I ask.

Her concentration stays on the man in front of her, and I can’t help but feel a bit of jealousy. I know he’s dead and all, but damn, I’d like her attention on me. I think feeling the full impact of Zoey’s focus would feel like the sun coming out from behind a storm cloud and shining down on me. Or at least, not having my lunch threatening to make a repeat appearance. I guess that’s my new bar of excellence.

“My grandpa was the coroner before me. I worked with him, took over when he passed.” Her answer is clipped and robotic, and I realize belatedly that she probably gets asked that regularly, and now I sound like some misogynistic neckbeard when I was just trying to make conversation.

Note to self, her job is probably not safe territory.

For her or my stomach.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The apology is automatic, but I am sorry she lost someone close to her. And that I’m stumbling over my tongue because I’m not used to this. People like me . . . women like me.

But Zoey?

She’s immune to whatever charms I might have, and it’s throwing me for a loop, and it’s not one of those fun roller coaster ones where you know that you’ll pull back into the unloading zone safe and sound in ninety seconds.

Nope, this is more like pulling G-force loops in an experimental fighter jet with no pilot license. She doesn’t acknowledge the apology, squinting at something inside the guy’s trunk.

Oh, God, is that an actual kidney? A burp tries to work its way up my throat, and I hold it back, not trusting it. Distract yourself, Blake! Don’t puss out!

I decide to go offensive and play a little hardball and also talk to keep things moving in the right direction. And by that, I mean down my esophagus with only air passing over my lips.

“Me?” I prompt, highlighting that it was her turn to ask me a question, but all I get is an answering sigh that fogs up her face shield. “Oh, I got into life insurance after college. Got a decent head for stats” —I tap my temple— “so it seemed fitting.”

“Good for you, Mr. Hale.”

“Blake,” I correct. “What else am I into? Glad you asked,” I say, sounding a bit game-show host-like. That does get the smallest hint of a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I’m still counting the small victory. “I work out with my best friend. His name’s Trey. I play co-ed rec soccer for the Silver Sun Pickups . . . have Sunday brunch with my family . . . play barroom trivia with a team at a pub near my apartment . . .” I search my mind, trying to figure out what else I do so I can continue my All About Blake TED talk, but that’s pretty much it.

Does that sound shitty?

Should I be volunteering at the animal shelter, cleaning up trash in the neighborhood park, or some other Good Samaritan type deal? Zoey seems like the kind of woman who does stuff like that.

While I have a minor existential crisis about the value of what I’m offering the world at large—newsflash, it’s not stellar and I should probably do something about that—Zoey seems to have gone off on an entirely different mental tangent.

“That’s a lot of people. Friends, teams, family.” Her hands have paused, or at least I assume they have because though they’re inside the open-chested guy, she seems still somehow. Quiet, thoughtful . . . no, that’s not all. She seems . . . sad?

“You have people? Other than Holly, I mean.” I chance a glance toward the door to make sure Holly isn’t loitering around to eavesdrop. “She seems like a lot, so she probably counts for like three people at least.”

That does get the corners of Zoey’s lips to tilt up in an actual smile.

I’d call that a big victory except that her shrug is noncommittal. That shrug of hers is basically the kiss of death, a clear sign that she doesn’t care whether I’m here or not.

But I need to be here—for the paperwork.

And because I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the other day, and surprisingly, those thoughts have not at all been about how she caused thousands of dollars of damage to my car but that her lips were the prettiest shade of pink.

“Holly,” she finally says. “And Jacob.”

Oh, damn! I got an answer!

I hate Jacob instantly.

Whoever the hell he is.

“Who’s Jacob? Husband? Boyfriend? Kid? Dog, right? Tell me he’s your pet labradoodle and put me out of my misery, Zo.” I slap an open palm to my chest over my heart, which has stopped beating as I dramatically wait on pins and needles for her to answer.

Zoey pulls something large and meaty looking out of the body, and I gag aloud before I can stop it this time.

She looks up at the sound, eyes going from me to the whatever that is, and no, I absolutely don’t want to know.

I swallow again, not willing to look away now that I’m this close to a break-through with her.

Oh, she doesn’t want to tell me, but she does too. I can sense her reserve, but she’s licking her lips like she can taste the words.

Either that or she’s a secret cannibal and I’ve interrupted her evening dinner.

She sets the organ in a bowl, thankfully out of sight, and gives me the full attention I want. Her eyes are wary, her words slow, but she asks, “Why do you want to know?”