Page 3 of You'll Be the Death of Me

“Rule book?”

“Yes. It’s a guide to what you, a deceased, can and can’t do on earth.Follow those rules, Mr. Lewis.” She went full stern librarian on him and wagged her finger as she spoke, emphasizing each word. “I am already going out on a limb for you here. Breaking those rules will have dire consequences—for both of us.”

“Got it,” he said with a nod and felt a surge of confidence mingle with his still thrumming nerves.

If there was one thing Cole Lewis knew how to do it was follow rules.

“Great. See you in three days, if not sooner,” Beatrice said, and tapped her keyboard again.

“Thank you for doing this,” Cole said. He braced himself to be sent to earth. He hadn’t gone back since he’d died, and imagined it would involve the same tingly-all-over sensation and maybe some bright lights.

“Oh! One more thing,” he blurted. “How will I know what the right path for her is?”

Beatrice cast him another beguiling grin. “You’ll know.”

Then she stroked her keyboard one last time, and Cole disappeared in a flash of light.

Chapter 1

One day earlier

Dell Rodgers woke ready to kick the day’s ass.

It was one week until she walked down the aisle and eternally linked her life to the man sleeping beside her, and her to-do list was extensive. Seating charts, confirming the cake flavor, final dress fitting—yes, all of that, of course. But also, Pergo had just been named the top restaurant in San Francisco, and her dining room would be overflowing for months—years! Last she heard, the wait to get a table was already six weeks. Not that she checked. She had her assistant, Mariana, check things like that for her and recite encouraging stats and figures like a little bird when she needed a boost. The new title bestowed upon them like the golden fondant set to grace her four-tiered tower of a wedding cake the next weekend would mean an even bigger surge in patrons flooding her door for a taste of the best the Bay had to offer. Case in point, Pierrick Moreau, a renowned food critic hailing all the way from Paris, was set to show up for dinner that night.

She had her wedding, she had her restaurant, she had her book—a collection of recipes and stories from her life—coming out in a month and revving up publicity. She had the handful of nonprofits her mother ran and to which she donated her time and money. All of that kept her plate full enough. And then there was the fact in seven short days she’d be the daughter-in-law of the city’s mayor. Yes, that last bit at times felt like a lethal amount of pressure, but pressure turned coal into diamonds, right? And besides, she thrived on pressure. Being the chef de cuisine at a restaurant primed for a James Beard or a Michelin, if not both, left her able to handle anything. Including marrying the mayor’s son in the social event of the season and becoming local royalty.

She sat up and swatted Tommy’s perfectly sculpted butt outlined by their luxe sheets. The round bulge under the silky gray hardly jiggled thanks to all his work in the gym.

“Rise and shine. Busy day today,” she said.

Her fiancé groaned his customary greeting. “Every day is a busy day for you,” he said, still face down into his pillow.

“Well, yes. Ambition does lend itself to a full calendar. Now, get up. Unless you want Jason and Mariana to see you in your underwear again.” She playfully swatted him once more.

He rolled over with a growl and propped himself up on his elbows. Dell’s eyes couldn’t help perusing his bare chest and abdomen on display. Tommy—Thomas Giovanni Moratto III officially, Tommy G. to old friends, Tom to colleagues and his parents, and Tommy to her—remained an enviable shade of tan olive year-round. Dell was a rosy shade of ghost beside him, as if someone had dropped a single bead of red food dye into a gallon of milk. Tommy routinely punished his body into a seamless tapestry of toned dips and grooves she enjoyed exploring with herfingertips. If they had nothing else in common, at least they were physically compatible.

“Ah yes, the dynamic duo,” he said flatly. “You know, when I proposed to you, I thought I’d be marryingyou, not your whole entourage.”

“You’ll learn to love them. Now, time to get up,” she said.

He swung an arm around her and pulled her close, squeezing her body against his and kissing her. It landed like it always did: like a warm, sumptuous pie with no filling.

Dell dutifully kissed him back, convincing herself once more the sense of a void was simply pre-wedding jitters and their formal union would fill it.

She left him in the bed and went to brush her teeth and pull on her jogging gear. Once she was ready, she descended the stairs and crossed the living room to enter the spacious and recently renovated kitchen in their Marina District home.

Like most every other structure elbowing for space on the San Francisco Peninsula, their house was sandwiched between two others, separated only by a change in color. It was technically Dell’s house. Her father, a real estate mogul in the area, had owned it for decades, from long before it carried a seven-figure price tag in the city’s skyrocketing market. He’d passed the deed to Dell when she returned to the city to open her restaurant, and Tommy had moved in with her when they got engaged a year ago. She loved its old charm: the ornate crown molding, the symphony of creaks and groans if she stepped on the hardwood floors just right, the way the lights sometimes flickered when the wind blew too hard. It had no front yard, and only a back patio, but the marina and windswept bay were a block away to make up for it.

They’d updated the kitchen with new appliances and a giantslab of granite as a prep area. Dell still lovingly slid her palm across the smooth stone island every morning, enjoying the slick iciness of it.

“Good morning,” she said to her favorite room in the house. The kitchen was her favorite room in any building.

“Good morning,” a voice responded.

Dell turned to see two of her favorite people letting themselves in her front door. Her best friend, Jason, was decked out in black leggings and neon green running shorts with a matching zipped hoodie, looking like a six-foot-tall highlighter pen, and Mariana, her assistant, wore her customary ensemble of business casual: a navy blazer over a white blouse and black jeans. Her tote slung over her shoulder. She used the knuckle on the hand holding a Starbucks cup to nudge her glasses up her nose.

“Morning,” Dell greeted them.