“The money?” Mrs. Horne says. “How do I get the money today?”

My brows knit together. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Horne, but it’s not quite that simple. I’ll file the claim, they’ll do their investigation, and then once it’s ruled in compliance with the terms of the policy, the payment will be made as set forth in the beneficiary section.”

Mrs. Horne’s eyes narrow, and for the first time I see emotion in her face. And it’s not a nice one, either. “You mean I don’t get my money today? I have to wait even longer?”

Damn. So much for the lost and hurting widow. Mrs. Horne’s acting like planting her husband in the ground was planting a money tree. And it’s time to harvest, dammit. “I’m afraid not. But we’ll do everything we can to process the claim quickly and painlessly.”

“Not quick enough,” she says in a huff, a note of whine entering her voice. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

I glance down at the date of death to see that it’s mere days ago despite the eons Mrs. Horne makes it sound like, but I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Dick Horne lived up to his name and was a terrible husband and she counts those suffering years or something. “Of course, loss can make the days seem extraordinarily long. I’ll do my best.”

“Just hurry. Call me when it’s done.”

Do I look like Amazon or something? Next day delivery with a Prime policy? Either way, in Yvette Horne’s mind, the meeting is over. She stands, and I follow, offering her a hand. She shakes like a limp noodle who expects her hand to be kissed, but she’s no queen. Queen Liz definitely doesn’t keep letters of knighthood or whatever tucked in her cleavage.

Once she’s gone, I go back to my desk, sitting down and rubbing my forehead. It’s only after I get the third circle done on my temple that I remember where my fingers have been, and I groan.

Well, not everything’s bad. Sure, I’ve got some more paperwork to do, and just out of habit, I’ll give the home office a call. After that, I’ll call Zoey. I can use this paperwork as an excuse for an actual date.

But first a hand wash . . . and a face wash.

Chapter 8

Zoey

The skillet on my stove sings merrily, little pops and crackles as the vegetables and butter I put in there a few minutes ago start to absorb the heat and cook. On my cutting board, I’ve got the freshly-cooked chicken ready for a slice and dice.

It’s all from my subscription box, a mix of regular food and organic farmer’s market stuff that costs a pretty penny. But it’s an indulgence I love, mainly because now I don’t need to go to the grocery store and deal with the odd looks and talk that’s not even behind my back anymore.

I just got tired of stopping by the meat section and getting bullshit like Hey, DDG! A little steak tartare on the menu tonight? or another witticism, Killing cows so you don’t kill anyone else?

I sigh, setting my knife down. At this rate, I’m going to be getting my entire life delivered via FedEx, and never talking to anyone at all. There are just too many idiots in the world who think my tragedy is their comedy.

Fine, so I haven’t always helped things when I’d replied to the snorting twat-waffle at the grocery store that I craved red meat when Aunt Flo is visiting and asked, with a fake-sweet smile, if he’d ever earned his red wings. I was hungry for fresh sausage that night.

Bitchy? Probably.

Crass? Definitely.

But why should I have to be well-mannered with everyone else when they’re not with me? It’s not like this sense of fatalistic weirdness just popped up overnight. Oh, hell no, it’s been the product of years and years of growth, layer upon layer built up like someone painting the same spot over and over until it’s like a little armored onion.

Blake Hale had some good manners and wasn’t scared off by your weirdness, my conscience reminds me. He was cute, too.

That’s true, but not helpful either. Not when I’m doing my best to not think about the sexy, smart, flirty man who makes me want to forget why I’m doomed to a life alone. Or at least pretend to be someone else for a little while.

I swap my chicken and vegetables in my skillet and brown up the chunks. As usual, I made enough for two, but Jacob is out tonight. I know he’ll be back later with the appetite of an eighteen-year-old kid, so I throw the second serving in the refrigerator for him to reheat later and settle in on the couch.

This is my life—PJs at 7pm, dinner for one, watching reality television, and pretending I’d kick ass if I were on Survivor. Bear Grylls has nothing on me.

Well, except all the actual outdoor experience and willingness to eat live bugs and drink urine. I’m definitely out for that and would prefer to starve while dying of dehydration.

It’s why I learned to fucking cook.

I’ve only had one bite of chicken and broccoli in white wine sauce and the rehash of last week’s episode is still rolling when my phone rings. I glance down in case it’s work or Jacob, but it’s an unknown number.

Well, it should be because it’s not in my contacts, but I know those last four digits. One-four-seven-three . . . it’s Blake.

In shock, I sit up straight on the couch even though he can’t see me and my heart rate skyrockets in an instant.