Jael James’s mother’s death brought to light her destiny. Now it is time for her to step up and take her mother’s place as the Grim Reaper. Between ghosts, Death, and Nathan her, EMT partner, she has her hands full.
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Excerpt:
Slumber wrapped heavily around Jael James like a familiar blanket. She wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but something woke her. Nightmare? No. Alarm? No. That’s when she smelled him. His cologne was unmistakable. It had planted itself firmly in her memory, so no matter what, she couldn’t forget it. Almost like the man himself. She couldn’t forget him, either.
“Jael, darling. We need to speak,” he said from what sounded like the foot of her bed.
“Not now.” She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him, but Jael knew he stepped out of its path. “I worked the night shift, and I need my beauty sleep.”
“You can sleep when you’re dead.” He growled at her.
She pulled her comforter up over her head and snuggled deep into the bed, trying to ignore him. Her eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn’t going to leave until he’d done what he came to do. She was doing to do her best to ignore him when she felt him grab a hold of the blanket, pulling it off her from the bottom of the bed.
“Go away!” Jael shouted, glad she’d slept in a pair of shorts and tank top instead of just the T-shirt she was accustomed to. The shorts were small and tight, but at least all her important parts were covered.
“Come. I’ll make the coffee.”
Coffee was the only way he would get her out of bed. Jael let out a grumble as she crawled out of bed. She fought the heaviness of sleep weighing down her eyelids. The clock on the bedside table glared in her dark room. Seven o’clock in the morning. “Someone needs to explain to him the proper visiting times,” she mumbled.
She continued complaining to herself about her mere hour of sleep when the floor-to-ceiling window curtains were opened. Oh, he is going to pay now. She’d paid good money to have dark, sun-blocking curtains made for such large windows. Though she loved her loft looking out over the city, without those curtains, she would have moved. Being a night owl through and through, she didn’t want to be woke by the sun each morning.
“Are you crazy?” she yelled as she pounded down the steps.
She found him, all six-foot five, clad in black from head-to-toe, at the bottom of the stairs, a coffee cup in his hand.
“I’m Death. Crazy is part of the job description.”
Marissa Dobson 