“Could you?” She held out a sleeve, looking over her shoulder at him, pink lips curled up at one side. Those lips always made him rock hard and ready for action. Murray helped her out of her raincoat with the anticipation of a kid on Christmas morning.
“I’m sorry, I seem to be late.”
Lucy Fagan didn’t look sorry. Far from it. She looked intentional, from her shocking red mane to her shiny fuck-me pumps. She’d chosen to make an entrance. Murray could feel all the eyes boring into his back. Lucy looked past him and waved at the other mourners.
“No apologies necessary.” Murray felt his cheeks growing painfully hot. “We were just getting started.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she cooed in a drawl that was pure Blue Ridge Mountains and moonshine. Murray handed Lucy her coat, and as she went for the hall tree, Murray watched her hips sway like a metronome. She was like fresh air and sunshine wrapped in a short black dress that was more see-through than she probably realized.
Or maybe not.
Lucy had been around before, having dropped in on his past couple of funerals. He’d seen her many times before that, along the trails of Riverside Cemetery. He’d spotted her once, sitting on a blanket by Thomas Wolfe’s grave, pen in one hand, notebook in the other. Many people visited Riverside, but even amongst the throngs of tourists she’d always stood out.
Up close, Lucy was mouthwatering. Murray’s gaze swept her ripe, ivory flesh, noticing a smattering of freckles that proved she was human and not carved from marble. He wasn’t easily impressed by women, but Lucy was absolutely arresting, and likely about ten years too young for him.
Murray had a flash of taking her, right then and there in the foyer, slamming that beautiful ass against the fading walls of what had once been his father’s empire. Instead, he nodded toward two back rows of empty seats, assuming she’d plant herself there like she had on the past two occasions. Lucy brushed past him, parading herself all the way to the front row. As if she held him by a leash, Murray trailed her down the aisle, struggling to keep his eyes focused on the large wooden cross on the wall and not the swing of her hips.
Reverend Townes Hildebrandt, who’d been waiting patiently in his wooden throne behind the pulpit, looked up from his bible. The Rev didn’t even seem to notice Lucy, but he took Murray’s appearance as a silent cue. He stood and approached the podium.
Layhes and Hildebrandts had been burying Ashevillians together for generations, and if Murray had embalming fluid in his veins, Townes’s contained equal parts Jameson and Holy Water. Tallulah insisted that Townes’s thoughtful and tactful eulogies made Layhe and Son’s a cut above the rest, and that they kept the founding families and old money in town coming to their funeral home over all the newbies.
Townes flashed the crowd a self-deprecating smile and the dull hum of the crowd instantly ceased. Murray wasn’t surprised. He was an amazing orator, able to engage even the toughest crowd without breaking a sweat. Conversely, he pushed the boundaries on acceptable behavior from man of the cloth, making no apologies about being a normal red-blooded man. Reverend Townes was no stranger to dating apps nor a bottle of single-malt scotch. Bearded and charismatic, the Rev had become a regular fixture at all the local breweries when he was “off the clock.” Ashville’s Episcopalians couldn’t agree whether Townes should be excommunicated or revered, but they all monitored his antics like reporters for TMZ.
“Friends…” Townes began, and Murray tuned him out. His feverish gaze wandered to Lucy, pleased at the voyeuristic opportunity his position allowed him. Based on the way the entire Garrett family was eyeing her, they hadn’t expected her. Murray figured it was because they didn’t know who the hell she was. Lucy smiled and waved at them like Miss America from the back of a convertible on the 4th of July.
Reverend Townes was hard to compete with though, and he’d soon captured their undivided attention, working the crowd like a Vegas magician. Having seen everything in Townes’s bag of tricks, Murray’s attention remained with the redhead sitting cross-legged in the front row. Her bedroom eyes studied the open casket with fascination, only glancing away from it when one of the Rev’s more profound statements landed hard with the emotional crowd. When anyone would break down, Lucy’s head would whip in their direction. Her studious expression had more layers than baklava, and Murray needed to know what was going on behind her sharp blue gaze.
As if sensing the weight of his observation, Lucy’s eyes shifted to Murray’s. Some sort of wicked understanding seemed to dawn behind her heavy-lidded stare, and an impish expression rippled over her features. Without breaking eye contact, Lucy leaned back, slowly uncrossed her legs, and parted them just enough to give him a peek at the crotch of her sheer black panties. Murray was helpless not to look, and when he finally managed to find her face again, Lucy crossed her long legs demurely, turning her attention studiously back to the Rev. The entire experience was so fleeting and audacious, Murray wondered if he’d imagined the entire thing. Then he remembered what he’d seen between those creamy thighs, and swallowing deeply, he struggled with his tie.
Afterward, as the organist played them down the aisle, he zagged away from the milling crowd, his first order of business to get in front of Lucy again. Sadly, Tallulah blocked his path. Her mouth was smiling, but her narrowed eyes were all storms.
She snapped at him the moment she felt no one was near enough to hear her. “Get your mind out of her panties. You have a fucking job to do.”
“I have no idea what you mean, Tallulah.” Murray defaulted to denial as naturally as breathing.
Tallulah surveyed him for a split second, as if he were old dynamite. “Twinning, Murray.
