Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Lauren Landish

They call her Drop-Dead Gorgeous, ’cuz she kills ’em and then takes care of the bodies, if you know what I mean.”

I’m not sure if investigative work attracts morbid people or if our sense of humor is a coping mechanism. Probably both.

She’s stunning. Even as discombobulated as she is, her creamy skin, coal-black hair, and pale blue eyes all emphasize a face that is truly one of the most perfectly formed faces I’ve ever seen. She’s a model of utter symmetry, that so-called ‘golden ratio’ that I remember reading about in an article once that tried to scientifically ‘explain’ beauty.

Because though he’s not blood, Grandma and Grandpa adopted him, which technically makes him my uncle. But after their death, I’d become his guardian, which makes him my son. And twisted family tree aside, in truth, he’s my brother. Always has been, always will be.

Holy shit! Is he trying to out-trivia me? Or trivia-flirting? Flirtriva? It’s like nerd-sexy to the max.

“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in this. I believe that we are shaped by all the things that happen to us, and we wouldn’t have gotten to this moment if anything in our lives had been different. And this moment?

Yeah, he’s good, but he’s also this wholesome version of alpha. And I like it, which is dangerous.

She freezes and looks up to meet my eyes, words tumbling over each other, “No, you don’t understand. I’m not freaking out. I’m turned on. I’m thinking about sniffing your bed pillows like a weirdo, contemplating if it’d be better for you to bend me over the island or the couch, and my ovaries are basically exploding—pew, pew, pew—like fireworks because you’re so good with Chunky that I can imagine you as the one of those dads who’d play tea party with your daughter. And all of that is making me hot and nervous . . . and . . . and . . . I should stop talking now.”

“And for the love of fuck, do not bury me in a bra. The last thing I want to do is spend all my haunting years digging at my underwire.”

Jacob leans over and talks out of the side of his mouth to Blake. “No backsies. She’s yours now.” I flinch, but Blake beams like he wouldn’t have it any other way. “Working on it,” he tells Jacob, but he’s staring at me like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. The best part is . . . I don’t mean my looks. I feel like Blake sees my insides—my brain and weirdness—and that’s what he thinks is stunning.

Death is what I do, life is what he does, but the important thing is that together, we’ll make every day we have the best it can be.