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“I’m sorry.”

Her brows lift.

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“I heard you. I’m just waiting to see if lightning hits the building.”

“Would improve the ventilation.”

Her mouth twitches before she catches it.

I take the tiny mercy and keep my dumb mouth mostly under control. “You got every right to be pissed. I should’ve checked which coffin I was throwing us into.”

“Throwing us?”

“You were participating pretty enthusiastically.”

“Do not ruin the apology.”

“There it goes.”

She shakes her head, grabs her purse off the velvet stack, and starts toward the door. “You are unbelievable.”

“Been told.”

She heads for the door with that stiff-legged walk women use when they are mad, sore, and trying not to let either one show. I should apologize better. I know that. Somewhere in me, under all the rust and gravel and old scar tissue, there is probably a decent sentence waiting to be used.

It doesn’t come out.

Instead, I watch her hips because I’m still me.

She stops at the door and turns back.

“You’re good in bed,” she says.

“In coffins too.”

Her eyes flash.

There goes the decent sentence again, shot dead before it could crawl to safety.

“You’re also an asshole.”

“Been called worse.”

“By smarter women, I’m sure.”

“Mostly by my mama.”

That gets half a smile from her before she kills it. “Lose my number.”

“You gave it to me.”

“And I regret it.”

“You’ll text.”