“Well, she can’t help it, working with the dead all the time. She just talks to them a bit, you know?” He nods like that’s just fine, normal behavior. “And poor thing has had more than her fair share of bad luck. You’d think she was born on Friday the thirteenth, under a ladder, while a black cat was walkin’ by, the way it is. It’s bound to make a person a bit . . .” He whirls a thick finger by his temple with a teasing smile that says ‘you know what I mean’. “She’s all right, you know. Damn good at her job, and mighty pretty to look at. Just an odd bird.”

There’s a mix of respect and fear in his words, and I decide to swallow down my indignant anger at his assessment of Zoey, who is perfect just the way she is.

How do these people not see how amazing she is? And more importantly, how fast can I see her?

Because I want to wash away all these people’s preconceived notions that Zoey has internalized and get her to go out with me again.

*

I can feel the chill of Zoey’s world before the door even opens, the fingers of overly air-conditioned air reaching down the hall. Normally, it’d give me shivers, but being this close to seeing her again has me burning, and the coolness is a welcome reprieve so I don’t look like a sweaty nerd on his first date.

I take one last breath to still my excited nerves and push open the door—ready to see her, ready to hear about her day while I watch her red lips form words, and ready to learn more about this woman who is haunting my every thought.

“Zoey?” I call out as I open the door.

She jumps a foot in the air as she whirls. “Shit, you scared me!” she shrieks, but she’s already laughing at her overreaction, her palm pressed to her chest where I’m guessing her heart is racing.

I laugh a little too. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

I take three steps across the room to stand directly in front of her, seriously thankful that there’s no body on the table and her hands are clean this time.

She seems to be working on the paperwork spread out along the stainless-steel table. Her breath hitches, and I feel a sense of relief that my nearness affects her the same way hers affects me.

The air between us charges with sparkles of electricity, making me even more grateful for the cold air.

“Better meeting like this than a car crash.” I offer a smile, letting her know it’s a tease, and her lips quirk, though she doesn’t grant me her full smile . . . yet. She’s a harder win than that, but I’m up for the challenge.

No doubt about that.

“Valid point, but maybe too soon?” she questions. “Are you here to ask me to dinner again?”

“Yes and no,” I reply, giving her my most charming smile. It’s definitely not hard with her. “I had to come out here for work reasons, but I’m hoping you’ll take pity on me and accompany me to dinner before I make the long drive back.”

I flash her my best puppy dog eyes and am finally given that smile I’ve been craving. I saw it fade so completely at dinner the other night and have dreamt of watching her mouth lift in happiness once again.

I bask in it for a quick heartbeat until she asks, “Work?”

Ugh, that.

“Yes, in a small-world twist, I’m here to follow up on someone we have in common. Richard Horne.”

Zoey’s brows knit together, a cute little wrinkle between them. “Dick Horne. The nickname that’s worse than the given one. Pretty sadistic of his parents, if you ask me.” She looks haunted for a moment, as though hearing a line of people calling her Drop-Dead Gorgeous in her mind. Refocusing, she asks, “What about him?”

“Well, I had a visit from Yvette Horne, his widow,” I explain. “Mr. Horne had a rather large life insurance policy, and the head office has me handling the case. She’s putting pressure on us to finalize the payout, but until the case is resolved, we can’t do that. Since you’re the coroner on file, I wanted to see if you had any insight or information about the toxicology report and cause of death.”

Too late, I realize that though Zoey hasn’t moved, the scant inches between us have grown, filling with distant professionalism.

“Oh, all my findings are in the report. And the repeat toxicology is expected soon, but no promises on a delivery date.” Her tone is clipped and practiced, that of a medical personnel to an outsider.

“Don’t do that, Zo,” I whisper-growl, dropping all pretenses of professionalism. “Having a case in common is no big deal.”

“It is when the case is ongoing,” she disagrees. “It could be seen as unprofessional or a conflict of interest.”

Judging by the way she won’t meet my eyes, even she doesn’t believe that.

“Do you have an interest in whether Yvette Horne gets the money?”

Her eyes flash at the question and I nod in agreement. “Exactly. Me neither. We’re box checkers. So don’t make this into something it’s not. Don’t let it be an excuse.”

“Excuse?” she questions, but her voice has gone quiet and breathy. She knows exactly what I’m talking about, what she’s trying to do. She’s already tried to push me away because of fear and superstition, and now she’s trying to use professionalism to do it too.

But there’s no need to deny ourselves.