“Valid point, but maybe too soon?” she questions. “Are you here to ask me to dinner again?”

“Yes and no,” I reply, giving her my most charming smile. It’s definitely not hard with her. “I had to come out here for work reasons, but I’m hoping you’ll take pity on me and accompany me to dinner before I make the long drive back.”

I flash her my best puppy dog eyes and am finally given that smile I’ve been craving. I saw it fade so completely at dinner the other night and have dreamt of watching her mouth lift in happiness once again.

I bask in it for a quick heartbeat until she asks, “Work?”

Ugh, that.

“Yes, in a small-world twist, I’m here to follow up on someone we have in common. Richard Horne.”

Zoey’s brows knit together, a cute little wrinkle between them. “Dick Horne. The nickname that’s worse than the given one. Pretty sadistic of his parents, if you ask me.” She looks haunted for a moment, as though hearing a line of people calling her Drop-Dead Gorgeous in her mind. Refocusing, she asks, “What about him?”

“Well, I had a visit from Yvette Horne, his widow,” I explain. “Mr. Horne had a rather large life insurance policy, and the head office has me handling the case. She’s putting pressure on us to finalize the payout, but until the case is resolved, we can’t do that. Since you’re the coroner on file, I wanted to see if you had any insight or information about the toxicology report and cause of death.”

Too late, I realize that though Zoey hasn’t moved, the scant inches between us have grown, filling with distant professionalism.

“Oh, all my findings are in the report. And the repeat toxicology is expected soon, but no promises on a delivery date.” Her tone is clipped and practiced, that of a medical personnel to an outsider.

“Don’t do that, Zo,” I whisper-growl, dropping all pretenses of professionalism. “Having a case in common is no big deal.”

“It is when the case is ongoing,” she disagrees. “It could be seen as unprofessional or a conflict of interest.”

Judging by the way she won’t meet my eyes, even she doesn’t believe that.

“Do you have an interest in whether Yvette Horne gets the money?”

Her eyes flash at the question and I nod in agreement. “Exactly. Me neither. We’re box checkers. So don’t make this into something it’s not. Don’t let it be an excuse.”

“Excuse?” she questions, but her voice has gone quiet and breathy. She knows exactly what I’m talking about, what she’s trying to do. She’s already tried to push me away because of fear and superstition, and now she’s trying to use professionalism to do it too.

But there’s no need to deny ourselves.