“This is my normal temperature, Ginny,” he rasped, the sheet sounding as though it was tearing within his grip. “You, however, are very warm.” His nostrils flared. “I’m not sure what it is about you, but there’s a…difference.”
“Between us?”
“Between you and everyone else.” He moved suddenly and quickly, so fast that she barely registered him throwing his legs over the opposite side of the table and a flash of firm buttocks, before he’d donned the jeans. “I can’t be here.”
It was almost alarming how panicked she grew at his imminent departure. Her throat closed to the size of a straw and an engine false started in her belly, chugging and failing, again and again. “Can I drive you somewhere? I’d have to use the hearse, but—”
“You should not be offering me a ride, Ginny. I’m a stranger.” He turned to face her over the metal table, looking deeply perturbed. “Do you often give rides to men you don’t have the slightest knowledge about?”
“Yes, but they’re usually dead. It’s kind of a given that they’ll accept.”
Bemusement stole his irritation. “Who are you?”
“You could find out,” she whispered, fearing she’d be humiliated about it tomorrow, but unable to stop herself. “You could stay and find out.”
Something akin to longing swept his features. “No, I…can’t.”
What was the cause of these nerves popping in her fingertips? If she didn’t find a way to prolong this association, it would be over before it started and something about that seemed horribly wrong. “We don’t have to stay here,” she said. “I was just thinking of taking a walk, actually.” Before he could respond, Ginny tugged her apron off over her head, tossed it on the closest counter and sped through the embalming room door. “Coming?”
“A walk,” he repeated, somehow already right on her heels. “In the middle of the night?”
“It’s the best time to go. Everything is so quiet.”
“How have you lived this long?” A beat passed. “Please, I can’t do this.”
“It’s okay.” Her smile was innocent. “I can go by myself.”
With a growl, Jonas reached Ginny’s side and she hid a relieved smile.
“One hour,” he muttered. “I get one hour.”
CHAPTER TWO
Luna Park was closed for the night, but some of the rides still twinkled where they lined the Coney Island boardwalk. With fall moving in gradually, the wind had a cool bite but summer was still laced throughout, carrying the scent of scorched sand and saltwater. Apart from a handful of people sleeping on benches and the occasional rat scurrying out to retrieve pieces of popcorn and dropped pizza crusts, the boardwalk was empty of life, quiet enough to hear the waves crashing nearby, the sizzle of the whitewash.
Jonas walked beside her with his hands clasped behind has back, staring straight ahead, occasionally mouthing phrases to himself. I shouldn’t be doing this seemed to be his favorite, with have you gone insane coming in at a close second.
I get one hour.
That was her favorite of his mutterings so far.
He hadn’t said, “You get one hour.” He’d said, “I get one hour.”
And maybe, just maybe, that meant he was enjoying being with her, even if he looked like he was being boiled alive in a pit of hot oil.
A girl could dream.
“One hour,” she murmured now. “And then I won’t see you again?”
Grooves formed between his brows. “Correct.”
She ignored the pang in her chest. “This is a unique opportunity then.”
He seemed reluctantly intrigued. “How so?”
“Since we’re never going to see each other after tonight, we can say the weirdest things on our minds without fear of reliving the embarrassment every time we meet. Maybe I can even pass on the secrets of womankind. Aren’t you curious why women open their mouth when they apply mascara?”
“Not until now. Why do they?”
“It’s reflexive. When a woman is trying not to blink, the oculomotor nerve is activated, triggering the trigeminal nerve that opens the jaw. Mouth open equals no blinking—and our bodies just do it naturally.” She beamed at him. “Aren’t you glad you came on this walk?”
He laughed, the full, deep sound making her think of underground wine cellars and the dark, less traveled sections of a library. “It’s going to be impossible to forget,” he said, seeming suddenly at a loss for words.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” he responded, looking over at her curiously. “I just can’t remember the last time I laughed…without making myself do it out of politeness.”
“Are you always polite?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but I always try to do the appropriate thing. The right thing.” Under his breath, he said, “Usually, anyway.”
Ginny stopped short, something terrible occurring. “Are you married? Is that why you shouldn’t be doing this? You said you had roommates and I just assumed that meant you were a single man—”
“I am unattached, Ginny.” He seemed transfixed by her hair blowing in the breeze. “In a manner of speaking.” With a visible effort, he gathered himself. “What about you? Do you always do the right thing?”