Dates with Death

He was already sitting at her table when she walked in.

Jamie Wilder writes romance novels for a living. She knows how a love story works: the meet-cute, the tension, the turn. So when the man in the black coat starts telling her about a Puritan farmer's daughter in 1680s Connecticut, she recognizes a good story when she hears one.

Death isn't what she expected. He's not brooding or cruel. He's ancient, bone-dry funny, and the best storyteller she's ever met. He tells her about Mercy, who could see him and wasn't afraid. About Nebetah, an Egyptian wet nurse who commanded him to stay. About Beck, a girl in combat boots in a Brooklyn diner who pushed the boundaries.

Three women. Three centuries. Three love stories told across one long evening in a Portland coffee shop while the rain streaks the windows and Jamie fills notebook after notebook and her oat latte goes cold.

She's falling for him. She knows it. She's a romance writer. She can see the arc.

What she can't see is why Death was at that table before she was. Why he never drinks his coffee. Why his breath doesn't fog in the October air. And why, when she says tell me another one, something in his ancient eyes looks like relief.