With her scalpel aimed straight at his heart, the last person Detective Waylon Wells expected to see in the morgue this morning was Soula, the woman who ghosted him after their one-night stand.
Dr. Smythe is the youngest (and for my money, the prettiest) Medical Examiner in Nashville, Tennessee, only I didn't know it last night when she was between my legs and just Soula.
This morning, we meet again as our careers cross paths and if I wasn't concentrating on not spilling my guts from the nasty fumes of this D.O.A., it'd be awkward as hell.
Our eyes meet over the autopsy table...
...ahem...
...cough...
...the autopsy table absolutely covered in melted, gooey human remains that are long past recognizable.
I open my mouth to speak. The name, Soula, is right there on my tongue.
Unfortunately, so is the stench—and taste of putrescine.
When I wake up on a scratchy, tweed couch with a pounding headache, Soula's handing me something steamy in a Dolly Parton mug. She's just as beautiful in her light green scrubs as she was naked in my bed last night, but her expression is clear—She wants nothing more to do with me.
But I want everything to do with her.