“Well, just know that if you ever see me running, it’s because zombies are chasing me. And I will trip you. I don’t have to be the fastest, just not the slowest. I will drop you like the ‘Drop Dead’ moniker suggests.”

Oh, my God, did I just make a joke about that? Horror blooms, but when Blake chuckles, I realize that maybe it’s okay. Maybe I’m okay. A little.

“Duly noted,” Blake says. “But they wouldn’t find me much of a meal. Not enough brains.”

“I highly doubt that. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . and warn you . . . and try to scare you off . . . oh yeah, and warn you.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and then Blake speaks again, his voice low and intent. “I’m still willing to take my chances with you, Miss Walker.”

I smile at his persistence. “Well, I’m still not willing to go out on a date with you, Mr. Hale.”

I’m getting weaker by the second but fighting to be strong, for both our sakes. His, because if he possesses zero survival instinct or self-preservation, I’ll find it inside myself for him.

And me?

I don’t know if I can handle another loss, another reminder that I’m meant to be alone.

“We’ll see. But I really should go, I guess. My alarm goes off at five for another run. I’m hoping my five-mile time will better tomorrow because you had me tied up in knots today.”

The accusation gives me all sorts of naughty ideas about knots, mainly ones where I’m folded into one with my knees by my ears.

“Good night, Blake.” I give him his name easily this time after all we’ve shared.

“Good night, Zo,” he says, and I can hear it in his voice. He heard that use of his name. “Sleep well.”

Chapter 9

Blake

“Blake Hale, how can I help you today?” Recognizing the corporate home office number, I answer my phone in my most professional voice, fixing a smile on my face just to be safe. They say you can hear a smile in someone’s voice, after all.

“Hey, Blake, it’s Frederick. How’re you?”

Frederick is the vice-president over claims for the Everlife company and a guy I only speak with occasionally.

He’s nice enough, but there’s something about him that makes me envision a fat cat in a pinstriped suit checking a gold pocket watch when we talk. And I suspect that if you don’t dance to his tune, that niceness goes away very quickly.

“Good. How’re you? The wife and kids?” Small talk, an evil necessity. Honestly, at least two-thirds of my business is exactly that.

But Frederick is used to it and cuts through it quickly. “They’re fine. Look, I’m calling about a pain in my ass that I’m hoping you can help with.”

I don’t suggest that he should probably see a proctologist for that and should definitely not be oversharing with his agents this way, but I think it really hard, hoping he’ll get the message.

“Uh, okay?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, not wanting to hear this.

“I got a call from a client. She was going on and on about her husband dying and how we’re dragging our feet on paying out his policy.”

Relief flows through me as I realize he’s being dramatic and not calling to discuss his prostate. But Frederick isn’t usually the type to exaggerate, so how bad was this client?

“Actually, she was more droning on about the money than the husband. I don’t know, maybe she’s got a house she’s trying to save or something noble like that, but . . .” He lets the word fall off, telling me he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Neither do I. And I’m beginning to get a much clearer picture. Are there cases where people are desperate to cash in a policy to make some grand gesture to save a loved one’s legacy?

Sure.

But they are much more rare than money-grubbing family members who want to take the money and run.

“Let me guess . . . Yvette Horne.”

“Yvette Horne,” Frederick confirms with a bitter chuckle. “She was worth three Alka-Seltzers, you know.”

“She came to see me a few days ago, said corporate sent her to me for the face-to-face. We filled out the claim and it’s in process. I explained that it can take some time.”

Frederick snorts. “Yeah, well, she didn’t get the message because she’s not giving us any. Woman already retained a lawyer and is sending us certified letters threatening her intention to sue if we don’t show some hustle.”

“What?” I exclaim. “And legal didn’t tell them to fuck off?” So much for my professionalism, but Yvette’s threats are way out of bounds given the timeline.

“Lawyers don’t do that, you know,” Frederick says. “They try to be more circumspect than that.” It could be a criticism, but Frederick’s tone is ramping up in frustration too.

“The man just died, and we only filled out the claim days ago,” I protest, repeating what we both already know. “Does she expect me to pull the money out of my ass like a rabbit from a hat? I’m not a magician.”

“No, she’s just trying to light a fire under our asses and get her money sooner rather than later. Which makes me question . . . is it a legit claim?”