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

by Megan Bannen

This was the appalling warmth of an undertaker who welcomed other people’s deaths with open arms.

Then again, she wondered which was sadder: losing someone you truly loved, or never loving someone to begin with.

He pressed his forehead to hers, and because it would be absurd to tell her that he loved her, he poured everything he felt into one word: “Mercy.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her cold cream as she nestled her head into the real estate of his body she had claimed as hers, as if she didn’t already own everything he was, body and soul.

Instead, he rewarded her with his almost smile. Most men seemed to take up so much room, and here he was, six feet, nine inches tall, and the most unobtrusive person she’d ever met.

Mercy did not find it vulgar. It was nice to be thought of as an altar, when every other man she’d dated had approached her with an attitude that suggested, Meh, I guess you’ll do.

and he understood then that if she broke things off with him once she knew about the letters, he would shatter, and there would be no putting him back together.

This one. The remains. The body. They were all talking about Hart as if he were no longer here. Because he wasn’t. He was gone. He had sailed the Salt Sea, another unbearable euphemism. Why couldn’t anyone say what he was? Dead. Hart was dead.