Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Margot

Heavy, lily-scented air freshener, accompanied by a slight undercurrent of vinegar, lingers in the air of my family's funeral home. Soft classical music hums from the speakers, maintaining the solemn, respectful atmosphere that's surrounded me since childhood.

My low heels snag on the worn hallway carpet. I stop outside the consultation room, take a long, slow breath, and smooth my dress over my hips. Quickly, I check the pins holding my hair back and nudge my glasses into place.

I can do this. He can't hurt me.

It's my job to help people through the worst time in their life. Sometimes, I take things too personally, absorb our clients' grief. Not today. I'm guarding my heart and mind.

I press my palm to the heavy oak door and push.

"Margot, just in time." My father stands from behind his desk and greets me.

Across from him, our client turns and smiles at me.

Daniel.

My ex.

He's not here to win me back.

I wouldn't take him back if he begged on all fours.

"You're as exciting in bed as a corpse."

Three years later and the final insult he hurled my way still haunts me. His tone so cold and unfeeling. The man I thought I loved was repulsed by me. I left my engagement ring on his kitchen counter and walked out. We've only run into each other a few times since that day. I was too embarrassed to even look at him.

I wasn't good enough to be Daniel's wife. But he trusts my family to arrange his grandmother's funeral. Splendid. It's my job to comfort people and handle all the small details, so all they have to worry about is mourning their loved one. I can do this.

Poor Mrs. O'Leary. I only met her a few times when Daniel and I were engaged, but she was always kind to me. I want to do my best for her. To give her a proper final viewing.

As I enter the office, Daniel stands and steps away from my father's desk. My heart squeezes, but dread coils in my stomach. He's still a good-looking man. Fine, chiseled jawline. Straight nose. Sincere brown eyes. Perfectly styled dirty blond hair.

Vicious, unkind mouth.

I stand straighter and dip my chin in greeting. "Daniel."

"Hi, Margot." He sweeps his gaze over me. Probably noting that I'm still too "plump" for his liking. I pull my shoulders back and resist the urge to suck in my stomach or fold in on myself to make my chest seem smaller. "It's good to see you again."

I force a tight smile, hanging onto my professional composure with my fingernails. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"It had been coming for some time." His stoic demeanor cracks. "We're all thankful she's no longer in pain."

I nod once at the familiar sentiment. I've heard it a lot over the years, and I've probably said it a few times myself, but it never feels quite right.

My father clears his throat and tugs on his suit jacket. "I'll let you go over details of the viewing together."

Great. I handle consults with clients on my own sometimes, but I'd prefer my father stick around for this particular one. He's probably hoping Daniel and I will get back together. As I approach thirty, Dad's started suggesting I "find a husband." He hasn't exactly given me any idea of where to look in the tiny hamlet of Pine Hollow. Nor do I have much free time to spend dating. Dad always liked Daniel, though. He's probably reading more into Daniel's choice to have his grandmother's funeral here than he should.

Obviously, I'd never told him why Daniel and I broke our engagement.

Once we're alone, I take the chair next to Daniel, turning it slightly to face him, but pushing it back so we're not too close.

"I want to do everything possible to honor your grandmother properly," I say. "Did she leave any instructions for her viewing?" This is never an easy subject to broach with clients, but with Daniel it's like clawing my way through a heavy curtain of grief and awkwardness.

A sad smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Did she ever." He pulls a thick peach-colored envelope from his inner jacket pocket. "Your father and I already went over the casket options. But maybe you could look at the one I chose and give me your opinion?"

Of course my father wanted to be the one to sell the most expensive part of the package. He knows every detail of every casket we have for sale in the selection room. He would've started with his top-down presentation, starting with the most expensive casket and working his way down until Daniel settled on something he was willing to pay for. Since he came from a family of investment bankers, I bet Dad didn't have to go too far down the line.

"Sure. I can do that. Will your mother be assisting you with any of this?" The one time I'd met her had been unpleasant. I'm not looking forward to a repeat.

He shakes his head quickly. "No. She won't be here until tomorrow. She wants it taken care of before her plane lands."

The glacier that took up residence in my chest the moment I laid eyes on Daniel melts a fraction. It's never easy on clients who have to make all these decisions themselves.

Daniel leans over and slides a large red-and-white shopping bag in front of him. "This is the dress she wanted." He unfolds a peach chiffon and sequined dress encased in a plastic bag, holding it up by the hanger for my inspection. Fancier than what most people request, but I've dressed clients in all sorts of outfits, even a clown costume once. A peach evening gown will hardly be the most unusual.

"She bought it for a cruise she was supposed to take next month." He swallows hard and his eyes shine. "I figured this is her final bon voyage, she should get to wear it."

"That's a lovely idea."

He returns the dress to the bag, then unfolds the peach-colored sheet of paper inside the envelope and lets out a heavy sigh. A photo slips out, falling on my father's desk. Daniel picks it up between two fingers and drops it in my lap.

"It's recent."

I stare at the photo of Mrs. O'Leary. She was a beautiful, elegant woman with a sleek cap of pale, shiny gold hair that she wore pulled back from her face with jeweled clips. My mind's already calculating the supplies I'll need to restore her to this version of herself.

"She still liked wearing makeup." A snide edge enters Daniel's tone as if it was silly for his grandmother to want to feel pretty at her age. "Never went without her coral lipstick." He plunks a heavy gold tube of lipstick on my father's desk.

I uncap it and unwind the stick of wax. The orange-y shade is a bit garish, but I should be able to blend something to look similar but suit her better. I reach over my father's desk and snag a pad of paper, pull a pencil from the cup next to his computer, and scratch out a few notes.

Coral lipstick.

Hair pins.

"Jewelry?" I ask.

"Her wedding rings." He extracts a white plastic container in the shape of a heart from his breast pocket, snaps it open and shakes out a simple solitaire diamond and gold band. "Oh, and coral nail polish. Of course."

"Of course." I jot that down too.

"Her earrings were simple gold hoops." He gestures to the bag at his feet. "They're in there too."

"Anything else you can think of?"

He tilts his head and frowns, as if panic that he's forgotten something is sinking in.

"Don't worry," I rush to assure him. "If you think of something later, you can always call or shoot me a text to let me know."

His frown deepens into a suspicious squint. "Margot, I'm with someone now."

Huh?

I blink and stare at him. "Okay?" My tone rises to an almost snotty-questioning lilt, unbecoming of my profession. He thinks I'm coming on to him?

Give him grace. He just lost his grandmother.

I wrangle my outrage and answer in the most cordial tone I can muster. "I tell all our clients to call me if they have any questions or remember something they want to add for their loved one."

"Oh. Right." He nods quickly. "I just don't want this to be weird. Since we…you know."

How dare he. "Daniel, that's ancient history." I flick my hand in the air as if our relationship is a distant—unpleasant—memory.

Never mind I'm so scarred from the experience I haven't wanted to go to bed with another man since we broke up. I won't let him know he hurt me so deeply. Or that I still question my desirability.

"Okay." His voice wobbles as if he doesn't trust me to control myself. I hate to break it to him, but he wasn't exactly Eros in the sack himself.

"Is there anything else?" I stand, hating how rude I'm being but unable to sit here any longer when he's acting like I'm about to jump in his lap and beg for his love sword to slay me. Whatever love or affection I had for him died when he compared me to a corpse.

"No, I went over music and flowers with your father." He stands and picks up the bag, holding it out to me.

"Good." Why does the room suddenly feel so small? "I'll get started on the preparations."

He reaches for me and shackles his hand around my wrist. My jaw drops at the sudden, desperate contact. "Just make sure she looks like herself. Like she's at peace."

Mrs. O'Leary died in her sleep. There hadn't been a lot of restorative work that needed to be done. So, I feel confident answering, "Of course."

The office door creaks open and my father fills the doorway. Daniel releases me and I resist the urge to rub my sore wrist.

"Perfect timing." My father's gaze swings between Daniel and me. "Don't worry about a thing. Margot will take good care of Anne, Daniel."

"I know she will." Daniel flashes a quick smile at me, almost apologetic.

"I'll walk you out," my father offers.

Thank God. I mutter a few goodbyes, grab the bag of Mrs. O'Leary's things and excuse myself. My father stops me in the hallway, leaning in close and lowering his voice. "I have that other appointment coming in soon. I'll probably give them a quick tour."

"Not upstairs, though, right?" I'm not in the mood to have these shady investors my father's reeled in traipsing through my living quarters.

He scowls at the question. "Of course not."

"I'll be in the prep room if you need me." Remembering my manners, I turn toward Daniel and force a polite smile. "Don't hesitate to reach out of you think of anything else." I don't want to make the offer again, but my father will strangle me if I'm rude to a client.

Rubbing my wrist, I hurry down the hallway to the prep room.

Hours later, I'm finishing what will be Mrs. O'Leary's final look. I glance at the reference photo, pleased I recreated the same hairstyle. The lip color is still bold but not as bright and I found a peach blush to complement it.

"Perfect," I whisper.

Footsteps in the hallway alert me to an incoming visitor. I continue working until it sounds like my father's entered the room.

"Dad, I'm almost finished with Mrs. O'Leary. I chose a slightly peachier blush. I think she'd like it if—" I glance up. Dad's not alone. The appointment. People who want to "invest" in our family funeral home. My father had been scant on details. Even though I have a lot of ideas on how to expand our business to make up for the general decline in our industry, the finances aren't my business.

I pull my mask down, snap off my gloves and step away from Mrs. O'Leary.

Four tall, muscular men in jeans, T-shirts, and black leather vests adorned with similar looking patches are with my father.

I recognize the tall, lean blond biker from previous visits—Marcel, I think. But the other three men are new. A red-headed, burly man with a full beard looks like he should be outside dropping trees with an ax, not touring a funeral home. The taller, broader blond biker must be related to Marcel—an older brother, maybe. The patch over his heart says he's the president.

Well la-di-da.

The fourth man leans down to whisper something in Marcel's ear. A bolt of frustration or annoyance creases Marcel's handsome features.

My father nods at me and holds out one hand. "This is my daughter, Margot. She's our mortuary cosmetologist." He doesn't bother giving me their names which is fine, I wouldn't remember them anyway. Not with the last one staring at me like he's trying to drill a hole through my skull with the power of his eyeballs.

My heart skips double-time.

In the sea of bikers invading my workspace, he stands out. Not just because of his height. All the men are well over six feet. It's not the leather vest with the patch that reads Road Captain , either—although that title is intriguing.

It's his eyes. The sharp way they dart around, observing and inspecting everything. Although, maybe it's fear, not interest in his surroundings. Few people are comfortable down here where we keep the bodies. A man like him, a biker who exudes raw masculinity, wouldn't admit to anyone that he's afraid of the dead. Or that he fears death.

The other three men seem keen, but their interest in my workspace is perfunctory. They're more focused on speaking with my father.

The road captain is focused on me .

Our eyes meet. His lips curl into a seductive smile. A jolt of electricity vibrates through my body—something I thought only happened in books or movies. He lifts an eyebrow, drawing attention to the scar running through it at an angle. He's so focused on me, heat burns over my skin like acid.

I whip around, forcing my attention back to my workstation. My heart pounds wildly, everything around me blurring into a shiny, metallic haze..

A few seconds later, the hairs on the nape of my neck prickle and a wave of warmth presses against my back.

"Margot." The deep baritone voice behind me resonates in my chest.

I twist to face him. He's so close, my shoulder brushes against his chest. My lips part as I stare up at him. Brutal —the only word that comes to mind. Brutal in the most handsome way . His eyes. So intense. He hasn't had an easy life. But he's confident. Cocky even.

My tongue ties itself into a knot.

He touches the fingers of his right hand to his chest. "Everyone calls me Jigsaw."

My eyebrows squinch into a frown. "Are you introducing yourself or inviting me to put together a puzzle?"

Did I really just say something so stupid to this man who looks like he probably throws knives as a hobby?

Sweat breaks out on my forehead and the strength seems to drain from my legs. I brace my hand against the smooth, cool counter. Dad told me this deal is important and here I am insulting one of the bikers within five seconds of meeting them.

One corner of Jigsaw's mouth quirks. "You're fun."

The memory of dealing with Daniel earlier still holds my emotions hostage. According to him, there's nothing fun about me. I'm no more exciting than dear old Mrs. O'Leary.

"You're the first person who's made that mistake." My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

He cocks his head and studies me, his gaze intense but without the disdain I felt from Daniel. Heat sears my skin. It's been a while since a man's taken an interest in me.

Not exactly a surprise since most of the men I meet are old enough to be my grandfather or dead.

I rarely have a chance to interact with men of the tall, terrifying, and handsome persuasion.

What is Jigsaw's real name? Am I allowed to ask? Can I ask him what it means to be the Road Captain ?

Have I finally met a man who makes me feel something ?

"Follow me, gentlemen." My father's imperious tone interrupts whatever Jigsaw was about to say. "Get back to work, Margot."

I scurry away from Jigsaw, all the way to the farthest cabinet where I stop to grab a fresh pair of latex gloves.

When I turn around, they're gone.

I'm alone again with Mrs. O'Leary.

But I can't stop thinking about the scarred biker…Jigsaw.

For the first time since Daniel cast me aside, I don't feel invisible.