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Dorothy
I didn’t sleep last night. Well, I think for about an hour, I zoned out to where I half dreamed, but that was just about Rocco with his perfect smile, handsome face, and hot body while he told me over and over he was my new boss. After that, I just stayed awake.
Imogen and I knew that Mr. Brooks’ nephew was going to be the new owner of the funeral home, but we figured he would be close to retiring and would just let Imogen and me run the place.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen since Rocco was my age. He was far off from retirement.
Holy cow, was he.
I pulled up to the funeral home and quickly unlocked the front door.
“Imogen!” I screamed. I had thought about calling her once I got home last night, but I knew she was exhausted from work yesterday. Mace probably wouldn’t have even let her answer the phone, let alone let me rant about Rocco.
I stared up the stairwell to her apartment and waited until I hollered her name again. “Imogen! You need to get your pregnant butt going! We’ve got an emergency.”
The door to her apartment swung open, and a shirtless Mace stood there. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
“I need Imogen, and I need her now.”
Mace wrinkled his brow. “Who died?”
In my line of business, that was a normal question. “Surprisingly, no one. I had a visitor last night, and I need to tell Imogen about it.”
A sleepy-looking Imogen appeared at Mace’s side, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “I didn’t think you were that drunk last night to make you have crazy dreams. Hell, I’m the one who is supposed to be having crazy pregnancy dreams.”
I climbed two steps and put my hands on my hips. “Lady, I was wide awake and one hundred percent sober when I walked right into Rocco.”
“Rocco?” Mace asked. “What kind of name is that?”
“I think the better question to ask is who that is?” Imogen laughed.
I didn’t care what kind of name it was. “That is the name of our new boss,” I hissed. “When I left last night, I met him. Well,” I mumbled, “more like I slammed into him.”
“With my car?” Imogen gasped.
I waved my hand in the air. “No, no. With my body. I was locking the door, and when I turned around to leave, he was right behind me.”
“I don’t see what the problem is,” Mace muttered. “The guy owns the place now, right?”
I didn’t care that Mr. Brooks had left the funeral home to his nephew. Imogen and I had both known for a long time that once Mr. Brooks kicked the bucket, the place would be sold, but we would still have our jobs. That had been left in his will, too. None of that mattered right now, though.
“So my car is okay?” Imogen asked.
Neither Mace nor Imogen were getting what I was trying to say. “The car is fine, and the reason it matters that he was here is because he’s young. Like, our age, young.”
Imogen tipped her head to the side. “What? Mr. Brooks was ninety-seven. How young can his nephew be? He can’t be younger than fifty.”
Were they not listening to a word I said? “He is in his thirties, and from what he said, he is here.” I paused for a beat. “To stay.”
“Oh,” Imogen gasped.
Mace looked from Imogen to me and then back to Imogen. “I feel like I’m missing a big chunk here. Why are you guys surprised that the new owner is here and that he is staying? He owns the place, right?”
“Well, yeah,” Imogen muttered, “but we didn’t think he would actually be here all the time. Mr. Brooks was here, but he wasn’t like here here, you know?”
“We also thought the dude would be old, like close to retirement old, so he would be like Mr. Brooks, who wasn’t here much except to show his face at funerals,” I explained. “And he is also going to be here at ten to meet with us.”
Imogen’s jaw dropped. “What? It’s already half-past nine.”
