It Must Be Magic by Jennifer Skully

resent your saying that.”
    He smiled. “No, you don’t. You think it’s entertaining that I keep asking even after you’ve turned me down…what?” He spread his hands. “Five times?”
    “Six, counting this one.” She couldn’t help the answering smile. If only he didn’t do what he did. He also struck her as a relationship kind of man, which didn’t fit her life plan.
    “Maybe I should have told you right up front that I’m not into necrophilia.”
    She snorted. He really was amusing. At first, she hadn’t thought he’d had a sense of humor at all, especially considering his career selection, but little by little, she’d realized he had a droll wit that caught up with you a few lines later.
    “I don’t have sex with dead people. I prefer live women.”
    Kate outright laughed. “Prefer?”
    “Maybe I should have used another word. I like women who are of the living, breathing variety.”
    She’d worked with him two years; he was one of her best customers. While many of the bereaved wanted to handle the flower arrangements themselves, some wanted everything done by the funeral home, an “I can’t bear to think about that now” mentality that Kate understood completely. She knew he wasn’t hers exclusively; he used plenty of other florists, but she did feel she got special hands-on attention, especially over the last couple of months. And he always threw in a few zingers during their dealings. Probably to let her know
he
was a live one. Versus a dead one. This conversation, however, took the cake. “Is this like cop humor, making a joke out of a morbid thing?”
    “I don’t think what I do is morbid.”
    “You work with dead people.” Her voice rose a tad with incredulity. “That’s morbid.”
    “I primarily work with their loved ones. It’s a very different thing.”
    “Yes, but —”
    He held up his hand. “Why don’t we talk over lunch, get it all out in the open and ease your fears about it?”
    “I don’t have fears about it.”
    “Yes, you do.”
    “Now you sound more like a psychiatrist than a mortician.”
    “I’m not a mortician. I’m a funeral director. See, there’s your first misconception. And funeral directors do need to have a handle on the psychology of the situation. I’ve been to a few seminars on dealing with the emotional end of the business.”
    “Mr. Swann —”
    “You always call me
mister
when I’m trying to ask you out.”
    “I’m not dating you.” Then she realized that was a bit too strong. “I’m concentrating on the flower business right now. Dating is low on my list of priorities.”
    He went on as if she hadn’t even spoken. “Most women fall into two categories. Either they’re utterly fascinated with what I do, want to hear every dirty detail, and sometimes I think
they’re
into necrophilia, especially when they ask me not to move during…uh…certain activities.”
    She covered her eyes, inhaled a deep breath and laughed again. He was irresistible in a rubber-necker kind of way. “I’m not one of those women.”
    “Then there’s the other kind. They’re terrified something might rub off on them. Fear of dying and all that.”
    “I’m not that kind, either.”
    “Then go out with me.”
    “I don’t have time for dating. I’ve got a business.”
    He shrugged. “All right, I’ll settle for sex. I promise not to ask you to do it in the embalming room or in a coffin.”
    She wanted to roll on the floor laughing. It was the most surreal conversation she’d had in her life. Except when her mother had made Kate accompany her to the funeral home to make arrangements for her inevitable passing. “Mr. Swann —”
    “At least call me Joe.”
    “All right, Joe. We’ve worked together for two years. Why are you pushing this
now?
”
    “The nesting instinct. It’ll sneak up on you. You’ll see some stranger walking down the street and bam, it’ll hit you. Before you know it, you’ll be dating him, then marriage, then