Unexpected.
I could have felt intimidated—maybe should have given the circumstances—but I didn’t. Not at all.
He was gorgeous. Aesthetically pleasing, for sure. Duquesnoy’s Adonis had nothing on him.
He probably had a bigger dick too.
His ice-blue eyes danced over my face from behind his thick-rimmed glasses. “What’s your name?” It felt like an awkward thing to asknow, but there was genuine curiosity behind the words, almost like he couldn’t continue the conversation if he didn’t know.
I don’t know for sure why I said it. Perhaps for some small amount of anonymity in the midst of thisembarrassingnew low, but I blurted out, “Iris.”
“Iris,” he tested the name like he was trying it on for size. “Why are you crying on the floor of the men’s room?”
“To be fair… I thought it was the women’s room.”
He huffed a small laugh.
His hands casually hung over his thighs, and I noticed they were also covered in tattoos. We had that in common.
I should have gotten up. Left. Done anything, really, other than sit there with my chin on the divot where my knees met and stare straight ahead, gazing blankly at his tan cable-knit sweater.It was an odd juxtaposition—his sexy librarian business casual against all the ink.
I liked it.
“Are you a librarian?” My brain-to-mouth filter was apparently out of order. At least I left out the sexy part.
“No,” he laughed again.
So glad I could amuse him.
“Areyoua librarian?” he asked, half joking.
“Unfortunately not,” I answered flatly. “That would have likely been a more promising career path.”
“Is that why you’re crying on the floor of the men’s room, then? Your job?”
“Lack thereof,” I replied, sullen.
“Ah. We’re getting somewhere.”
I covered my thumb with the edge of my sleeve and wiped the corner of my eye. “Any words of wisdom for someone on the verge of desperation?”
“A wise man once said, ‘I would rather die of passion than of boredom,’ so I guess my advice would be to find what you’re passionate about. The rest will fall into place.”
I gave him a half smile. “Van Gogh said that.” I was even more drawn to him now. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that mypassionis what led me here and that Van Gogh was right because I definitely felt like I was dying. So instead I asked, “What areyoupassionate about?”
“Death,” he answered without hesitation.
Ted Bundy much?“Are you being nice to me as a means to lure me to my demise?”
“No,” he stood and reached his hand down to me. “I’m a mortician.”
I placed my hand in his and allowed him to pull me to my feet. “Thanks,” I said. And then, “I guess that’s a reliable job.”
His brow pinched. “Yeah, but it’s also a meaningful job.”
“Mm. Do you take walk-ins?” An ill-timed joke, but I said it anyway. Probably because having someone so attractive in such close proximity to me made me fuckingnervous.
The corner of his mouth twitched and he rolled his eyes like this wasn’t the first time he’d heard that.
