I lean toward her, feeling her quickening breath warm my chest where her eyes are locked, not willing to lift to meet mine. She places one fingertip against my sternum, pushing me back. I lean into her touch for a split second, wishing for more.

“You feel this. I know you do.” I catch her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips to lay a soft kiss to her fingertip. Her focus stays locked on her finger against my lips. Good. I want her to hear this, see it, feel it. “I understand that you’re scared. But I’m not.”

For such a gentle touch, the kiss feels intimate, a sign of things to come, especially when she slowly traces my lower lip with that fingertip.

But her doubts rise to the surface. If they faded at all.

“That’s because you have all this goodness in you, and happiness around you, and I only have this.” Freeing her hand, she gestures to the morgue and death all around her before dropping her eyes.

I don’t let her do that and lift her chin and eyes to meet mine, cupping her face. “That’s not all you have. You have goodness in you too. Let me show you.”

For a moment, I can see her waver, her eyes searching mine for something.

A joke?

Does she think I’m one of these assholes who tease her incessantly?

Or a curse?

She told me her history, and she’s not responsible for any of it, though she doesn’t believe that. Bad luck, accidents, and a life long-lived . . . those are her true demons.

I lean forward slowly, making my intention clear as my gaze drops to her lips. She licks them in preparation, a sigh of desire escaping. There’s a scant inch between us when she backs away suddenly, her hip bumping into the table behind her, and it rolls away.

It knocks her off balance, and she stumbles, falling with little grace to her butt on the floor. Her legs are askew, her mouth opens in an O of surprise, and her hands splay wide behind her. “Oh!” she says, stunned before she reaches for her bruised backside. “Ow!”

“Shit! Let me help you up.” I reach for her hands, pulling her up.

She laughs self-consciously, still rubbing at her right butt cheek. “At least no one died this time.”

I give her a wry look. “Too soon for my car crash joke, but not your death ones?”

The comment gets me a rewarding eye roll.

“Whatever. Come on, I’ll go get the Horne file,” she says, taking a step. But as she does, her left leg doesn’t bear her weight and she cries out, half-collapsing again.

This time, to my slight credit, I catch her. “What’s wrong?”

“My ankle. I think I twisted it.”

I lift her up in my arms and carry her over to the now stopped table, setting her down on top of her paperwork. Right now, she’s more important than whether her patient files get a bit wrinkled.

Kneeling down, I carefully examine her ankle.

She leans forward, putting her hand on my shoulder to stop me. “It’s fine, no big deal . . . ah!”

I accidentally hit a tender spot as I rotate her ankle, and her pain is a sharp jab to my gut too. Before I can apologize, the door swings open behind me and a familiar voice shouts, “What in the hell are you two doing? No, wait, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. Get your own dinner, Zoey Walker.”

I look over my shoulder to see a frowning Alver covering his eyes with his hand. He virtually runs back through the door before either Zoey or I can explain the seemingly compromising position he caught us in.

I laugh, still on my knees in front of Zoey, and she swats at my shoulder. “It’s not funny! In minutes, the entire gossip grapevine is going to hear the story of how Alver caught me having oral sex on a morgue table, screaming out in ecstasy. And the worst part is, people will actually believe that.”

“Some of that sounds pretty damn good if you ask me. Maybe not the morgue table part. That’s not on my bucket list, but I could probably—definitely—be talked into it if it’s on yours?”

She shakes her head, the truth setting in and killing her humor. At least she seems to have forgotten about her ankle, thankfully.

“You want to get out of here?” I ask.

Chapter 10

Zoey

Why did I bring him to my house? This is the worst idea ever. One second, he’s asking if I want to get away from the spiraling threat of gossip and the next, I’m riding in his car as I give him directions.

“I could’ve driven myself home,” I argue, stating the same thing for the fourth time.

Just as repetitive, he says, “No need to injure yourself further.” Expanding on his shut down, he adds, “Fall injuries account for twelve percent of emergency room visits each year.”

“Is that true? Do you really know that off the top of your head?”

In answer, he throws me a charming smile. I’m not sure if he’s saying ‘of course I know that’ or ‘I made that shit up’, but somehow, both possibilities make me reluctantly smile back at him.

The truth is, I know exactly why I agreed to this. He’s gaining ground with his silly arguments that maybe my bad luck isn’t all my fault. It’s a relieving thought, one I’ve considered, wished, and hoped for.

But it can’t be real. The evidence is too weighted against me, with friends, boyfriends, and family all affected by my bad juju. Just thinking about it makes me discreetly touch the woodgrain trim on the dash of his sensible sedan. Yeah, I know it’s wood-veneered plastic, but it’s the best I’ve got right now, so it’ll have to do. It’s all about believing it works, anyway.