Body Movers Books 1-3

She moaned and kissed him with all the pent-up years of longing for him to come back to her, to climb into her bed and thrust his body into hers and whisper against her neck that he’d loved her all along. She kneaded the cords of his back and pressed her aching breasts against the wall of his chest. But when the hardness of his erection pressed into her stomach, warning bells sounded in her head. And when she heard footsteps approaching, reality came crashing back. She tore her mouth from his and stumbled back. She didn’t know the couple walking by, but she was still awash with shame.

“Carly,” Peter said on an exhale, then pulled his hand down his face. “You’re killing me.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to believe what she’d just done—what she’d been about to do. “You’re a married man, Peter.”

“I know,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” she said. “Stop saying that!” She brushed past him and swung into her car seat.

“Carlotta—”

She held up her hand to cut him off. “This was a big mistake. Go home, Peter. Go home to your wife.”

She closed the door with a slam, separating herself from him. Somehow she managed to get the key in the ignition with a trembling hand, then cranked the engine. She pulled away, squealing tires and accelerating at a breathtaking speed. So the muscle car was good for something after all: rocketing her away from Peter Ashford.

She resisted the urge to glance in the rearview mirror, and broke every speed limit on the way home.

It wasn’t until she pulled into her garage that her coworker Michael’s words came back to her. Just when you make up your mind that you have no intention of falling for someone—whammo!

She sighed and leaned her head on the steering wheel. “Whammo!” was right. She would have been better off getting hit by a truck.

Minus ten points.

10

When Carlotta’s alarm went off the next morning, she slapped at it blindly, her eyes crusted shut from a river of salty tears. As she lay there rubbing her fists against her lids, last night came back to her in a horrible rush. She groaned. What had she been thinking? As soon as she saw Peter Ashford, she should’ve turned on her heel and run. Now she had fresh sensory details to torment herself with.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she lamented, hitting her forehead for emphasis. She wondered what Lindy would say if she called in to take a “mental health” day, meaning she was feeling more crazy than usual.

Knowing the answer, she pushed herself up on her elbows, hoping to motivate the rest of her body to get moving.

At the sound of muffled noise coming from the kitchen, she pursed her mouth. Wesley was never up this early. She raised her nose and sniffed the air. Hmm—bacon. She hoped he’d made enough for two. Throwing back the covers, she reached for her yellow chenille bathrobe and pulled it over her red Betty Boop pajamas, then padded barefoot toward the kitchen and the good smells.

Wesley, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, stood at the stove, stirring and flipping and…whistling?

“Good morning,” she said warily.

He turned and grinned. “Mornin’. You look like hell.”

She smirked. “Thanks.”

“Are you sick? I got in kinda early last night and your door was closed—I thought that maybe you’d brought a guy home with you.” He pointed an egg turner at her pajamas. “But I can see that isn’t the case based on your godawful sleepwear.”

“Shut up,” she said playfully, then went to the fridge for orange juice. “I’m not sick.”

“What then?”

She sighed. “I ran into Peter Ashford last night.”

“Peter Ashford? What’s the asshole up to?”

She frowned. “Never mind.”

“I thought he was married.”

“He is. And it’s not like I’m mooning for him. I guess seeing him just brought back bad memories. What are you making?” she asked to change the subject.

“Eggs Benedict with fresh sliced red and green tomatoes.”

“Wow, what’s the occasion?”

“I got a job.” He took a bow, then waited for her reaction.

She squealed with joy, then jumped up and down, sloshing orange juice on her robe. “Oh, Wesley, that’s wonderful. Doing what?”

He pressed his lips together and her joy dissipated.

“Wesley?”

“It’s a great job,” he said in a rush. “Flexible hours, good money, benefits, and I don’t need a car.”

“Good,” she said, feeling somewhat cheered. “Doing what?”

“Uh…moving bodies.”

She choked on her orange juice. “What?”

“Okay, don’t freak out—it’s a perfectly legitimate job. We pick up bodies and move them to the morgue.”

“Pick up bodies from where?”

He shrugged. “Houses, hospitals…crime scenes.”

“Crime scenes? And who is ‘we’?”

The doorbell rang and Wesley smiled. “That would be my boss.”

Her eyes widened as she looked down at her pj ensemble. “At this hour?”

“Coop is picking me up for a morning run to a nursing home,” he said over his shoulder. “I told him to come early and have breakfast with us.”

“Coop?” She only had time to tighten the belt on her robe and run her fingers through her tangled hair before Wesley reappeared with a tall man dressed in overlong jeans, black Converse Chuck Taylor tennis shoes and a black sport coat over a dress shirt and tie.

A nice tie.

He appeared to be about thirty-five, with light brown hair, long sideburns and funky dark-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a philosophy teacher who hung out in coffee shops than a…body mover.

“This is Cooper Craft, my boss,” Wesley said. “And this is my sister, Carlotta. She usually looks better than this, but she’s been crying all night over an old boyfriend.”