More shuffling, and then Holly excitedly orders, “Spill it fast before I climb through this phone and pull it out of you.”

Even through the phone, I can feel her buzzing. Maybe Jacob would’ve been better? But the idea of telling Jacob that Blake got me off on his kitchen island is enough to make me cringe. Holly is definitely the better choice.

I dive in, telling her, “I took him paperwork on the Richard Horne case and we ate dinner at his place.”

There, I did it.

I told her the bare bones of what happened, which should be more than enough for her to remember my curse, and now she can remind me to be careful. That’s what I want her to do . . . right?

Instead, Holly sighs in relief and a touch of giddiness. “Oh, thank God! I thought you were about to say you slept with him and he ghosted in the middle of the night.”

“Uh, that happens?” I ask, shocked. I know step five, but in the middle of the night? Damn.

Her laugh is bitter, and the tender side of me wonders if Holly’s experienced that. “Yeah, that happens. Sometimes not-dating is a good thing, Zoey.”

“Sorry?” I say lamely. Ouch . . . Holly’s weariness with the dating scene is obvious, and not knowing when she was hurt that way makes me feel like an ass.

Holly blows a short raspberry, dismissing my apology and moving on. “Okay, I feel like there’s a lot to unpack here, and I want to hear every juicy detail, especially the stuff you’re not saying. So here’s what we’re gonna do . . . I’m going to make sure Olive hasn’t smeared jelly all over the kitchen table, and we’ll get ready. I’ll drop her to school and head to work. Meet me at the funeral home, and we can talk while I get Mrs. Cochran processed. Okay?”

A discussion about my sex life near a dead body. Not that unusual to me. “Thanks, Holly.”

I hang up and flop back against my pillow to stare at the ceiling. I start to replay last night, but Holly is going to grill me, forcing me to spill every glorious-slash-dangerous detail, so I might as well wait for her insight.

Fuck knows, I don’t have a clue beyond avoid connections, and while my brain tells me that’s still mission priority, there are other parts of me arguing that fact and making some headway. I set my phone back on the nightstand, pressing my fingertips to the wood for a long moment.

Don’t let him get hurt.