Page 32 of Auctioned to the Reaper

“I can handle annoying men.”

“Clearly. You’re still talking to me.”

She laughs.

A real laugh.

Bright and unexpected.

And before I can stop myself, my mouth curves.

Her eyes widen.

“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“You smiled.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Must’ve been a muscle spasm.”

“Should I call a doctor?”

“Should I put that oven back the way I found it?”

She laughs again.

And something in my chest loosens.

Just a little.

I hate how much I like it.

By the time the bakery closes, the sky outside has turned the deep purple of an October evening.

Autumn flips the sign on the door and turns toward me.

“Well, Mr. Reaper. I suppose I owe you dinner.”

“Seventy-five grand says you already do.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Still can’t believe you spent that much money.”

“Good cause.”

“Very charitable of you.”

“I’m a fucking saint.”

“Saint Grayson of the Haunted Mansion.”

“Patron saint of difficult women.”