Page 4 of Bitter’s Sweet

It ain’t pretty.

It’s ours.

The woman sits up, hair wild, dress twisted, eyes still mad and dazed in that way that tells me I did my job too well. Her heels are somewhere under the workbench. Her purse is on a stack of velvet samples. Her pride is probably still under my tongue.

She swings one leg over the side, then stops and glares at me when her knee wobbles.

I try not to smile.

I fail.

“Don’t,” she snaps.

“I didn’t say nothing.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I think a lot of things.”

“You think you’re cute.”

“I know I am.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“That’s what they put on my baby blanket.”

She climbs out slow, one hand gripping the coffin edge, the other pulling her dress down. She is tall in those heels once she finds them, but the first step almost takes her sideways. I catch her by the elbow before she hits a stack of cedar planks.

Her eyes flick up to mine.

That soft, stunned little look women get when their body still likes me more than their brain does.

I hate that look.

I like it too much.

“You good?” I ask.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Say what you mean, mean what you say.”

“What?”

“Club thing.”

She yanks her arm away. “Your club thing can kiss my ass.”

“Already been in the neighborhood.”

She makes a sound that is almost a laugh before she remembers she is irritated. Then her gaze drifts past me to the open lid of the coffin.

Her face changes.