The Undertaking of Hart and Mercy (Hart and Mercy, #1)

by Megan Bannen

It was monstrous of Mercy to deprive both Hart and her dog of each other’s company. Typical.

it was painfully awkward to miss a friend when she was standing right behind him.

Most days are just days, you know? Just me plodding through the hours between when I get up and when I go to bed. But whenever I’m around this one person, this individual who gets under my skin like no other, I feel more strongly the presence of an undeniable truth that is always there, lurking, hovering, waiting for me around every bend in the road. Loneliness.

Maybe there’s a strange comfort in knowing that at least one person feels something for me, even if that feeling could best be described as hate.

‘yadda yadda yadda’ covers a lot of territory.

“Do you honestly believe that dogs don’t have souls? Have you ever met a dog who wasn’t a hundred times nicer than your average human being?” “Um, no?” “Exactly. Don’t insult dogs like that.”

“Let me ask you something. If you had to choose between saving my life or saving a dog, which would you choose?” “The dog.” “That’s funny. You’re hilarious.” “I’m not laughing, am I?”

Her shirt was unbuttoned to her sternum, and Hart had to will his eyes away from the resulting cleavage. That is enemy cleavage, he reminded himself.

“You must be a hopeless romantic.” “Nothing wrong with romance. It’s not always hopeless.”

So, don’t tell me anything about yourself except the important things. That’s all I want to know.

Maybe the question we should both be asking ourselves is what do we have the power to change?

Do you ever look up? I mean really look? I find myself staring at the stars more and more lately, wondering what exactly it is I’m doing here. Here, meaning the universe.

If people can’t remember gods, think how easily forgotten any of us are.

He hung the towel on its peg anyway and looked himself in the eye. There it was, a truth so evident that it may as well have been painted on his forehead in red letters. He was helplessly, boundlessly, stupidly in love with Mercy Birdsall.

the sort of best friends who came as a matching set, as if they were attached by hyphens: Twyla-and-Frank.

an arrogant man apologized to obtain absolution. A good man admitted his errors and expected nothing in return.

I was afraid you were one of those horrible men who don’t have a sweet tooth and never eat desserts.” “I am horrible, but I like cake.”

“I think I’m about to do something stupid.” “Okay.” Mercy stood on tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth on the exact spot where the frosting had been. She pulled away and watched him as he gawked at her and said nothing, and his silence screamed around her until she couldn’t take it anymore. “Well? Say something.” “I’m still waiting for you to do something stupid.”

Fuck it. Professionalism is for people who are not in love with Mercy Birdsall.

“Be careful.” “I always am.” “But now you need to be careful for me.”

Lil was frighteningly observant, and Mercy felt as if she were wearing her two most recent orgasms on her face like bright pink lipstick.

“Are you trying to tell me you got it on with Hart Ralston?” “I’m not trying to tell you anything. You’re yanking it out of me with brute force.”

“I know I’m going to tell her if you don’t.” Hart went as cold as stone. “I will fucking end your life.” “No, you will fucking end your own life miserable and alone if you don’t tell her. Now. Like, now now.”

“I will never understand why mortals treat dying like it’s the stroke of an axe rather than the slow steaming away of water in a pot.”

It wasn’t love at first sight, exactly—more like a knowing. I understood then and there that I was going to fall in love with her if I stuck around. So I stuck around. And

Ms. Sanderson is a bicth “Ms. Sanderson may be a bicth”—he pronounced the word exactly as it was spelled: bic-thuh—“but the poor woman’s got her work cut out for her if she has to teach you lot how to spell bitch right.”