Love You to Death

by Jenna Levine

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; Paranormal Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A jaded grim reaper and a woman who wants another chance at life give ‘til death do us part a new meaning in this paranormal romance from bestselling author Jenna Levine.

Lucy McKenzie’s life has always been a disaster. So it should come as no surprise when one day she’s hit by an inconveniently-timed bus—and dies. Unfortunately for the handsome grim reaper who shows up to take her to the afterlife, Lucy is not about to go quietly.

Daniel is tired of his job collecting souls. While working for the Agency beats the heck out of going to Hell, he’s been doing this for literal ages. The drudgery has him yearning for more. Touched by Lucy’s plea for more time on earth, he convinces the Agency to make a deal: Lucy can have six more weeks of life if Daniel can observe her and report back on humanity.

But as Lucy and Daniel navigate the chaos of life and afterlife together, they discover that a second chance at living might be their real chance at love.

Release date: October 13, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One

Lucy

Of all the embarrassing things I've done in my life, ducking behind a stranger at a workplace retirement party so my boss doesn't see me has to be in the top ten.

"Don't move," I instruct, crouching down low enough in my seat that the man's conveniently broad shoulders block me from view.

He freezes. "What are you doing?" His voice is very deep and rough around the edges, like he hasn't used it in a while. It's a sexy voice, a fact I'd maybe dwell on if we weren't at a work event and the night hadn't already gone to shit.

"Let's just say that if I believed in Hell," I explain from behind this thankfully accommodating stranger, "I would currently be in its seventh circle."

The guy makes a strangled sound but says nothing.

My boss, Professor Elizabeth Skellar, stands less than five feet away as she scans the hotel ballroom. From the determined set of her jaw, I know she's looking for whoever forgot to bring the plaque honoring Professor Shiran's fifty years of service to Tennessee College. The same plaque she was supposed to present to him five minutes ago in front of this crowd of stodgy professors, Professor Shiran's family, and a handful of university staff like me who couldn't get out of being here.

But Skellar couldn't present anything when Professor Shiran took the stage, because there wasn't anything to present. Because I forgot the plaque at the office.

I knew I was supposed to bring it. I wrote it down in my Notes app and everything. Sometimes, though, even writing things down isn't enough to keep me from screwing up. I'm probably the worst admin Skellar has ever had-but forgetting the plaque for tonight's guest of honor is a new low, even for me.

As I continue hiding in plain sight, Professor Skellar walks past us without looking in our direction. Only when she gets a drink from the bar and returns to her seat on the other side of the room do I let out a sigh of relief and get my first good look at the person I've been using as a shield.

I nearly choke on my tongue.

I don't know why this guy just randomly showed up at a table reserved for university staff when everyone else abandoned it an hour ago. He's the most handsome man I've ever seen. No-handsome doesn't do him justice. This guy is hot. So hot it almost hurts to look at him. Dark, artfully messy hair that all but demands to have fingers running through it. Ice-blue eyes. I already noticed the lifesaving broad shoulders of course, but I didn't notice the way his torso tapers down to a narrow waist. Or this man's very long legs.

Or the way his cheekbones are so sharp they could cut glass.

His charcoal-gray suit looks like it cost more money than I make in a month as an administrative assistant and way more than an econ professor at Tennessee College would spend on clothes. He can't be staff, or I'd recognize him. He's also not family of the retiring professor, sitting way back here; Shiran's family is all sitting together at the front table.

At least I look good tonight, thanks to my sister, Jess, who took me under her wing the way she always does. My makeup and shoulder-length light brown hair are on point. And the dress she lent me-a gorgeous black sheath dress with cap sleeves that fits me like it's mine-gives me a confidence I rarely feel.

"Hey," I say, tapping into that false confidence. Trying for sultry but probably failing. It's me we're talking about. The man is glowering down at a notecard, doing that hot-guy clenching thing with his jaw that hot guys always seem to do in romance novels. "What's your name?"

That pair of ice-blue eyes snaps to mine. They widen a little, as though the question startles him. "My name?"

I nod at our otherwise vacant table. "A few minutes ago I was the only one here. Now you're here, too. An introduction seems appropriate." And I'd like to know who I'm about to hit on. "I'm Lucy McKenzie. And you are?"

"I know who you are."

"Oh," I say, surprised. "Are you in the Econ Department, too?" He looks like he's in his early thirties. Maybe he's a new faculty hire after all.

"No." His eyes go distant, as if he's trying to answer a difficult question. "As for my name, it's . . . Daniel?" His sentence turns up at the end, like he's not sure about it.

"Are you asking me if your name is Daniel or telling me?"

A beat passes. "Telling you?" He doesn't seem too certain of that, either. Being hot like burning clearly hasn't made him immune to being strange.

"Daniel's a nice name," I tell him. His shoulders relax a little, as though my liking his name is a relief. "What brings you to my table at the very back of this lovely ballroom?"

He stares at me like a deer caught in headlights.

"This table is only for the unlucky hourly employees who have to be here," I clarify. I don't tell him that my coworkers-including Eleanor, my work bestie-found more interesting places to be once the open bar started. It's probably obvious; we're the only two people here now. "Do you work here?"

"No."

For a second, I wonder if he's a party crasher. But that's ridiculous. Who would be lame enough to crash this party? Then again, I don't remember Daniel from the formal retirement ceremony this afternoon. If I so much as caught a glimpse of this man out of my peripheral vision, I'd remember him.

I try again. "How do you know Professor Shiran?"

He shifts awkwardly in his seat. He clearly doesn't want to be having this conversation. "I don't." His gaze sharpens on me with an intensity that could cut through stone. "There is someone here I have business with."

"Business?"

He nods slowly, ice-blue eyes still locked on mine, but doesn't clarify. Before I can ask what kind of business brings him to a retirement party for someone he doesn't know in a department where he doesn't work, servers in black-and-white uniforms begin moving around the room, placing slices of cake at each seat.

My mouth waters.

One of the only perks of being on the organizing committee for this event was helping with the menu planning and dessert tastings. Professor Shiran is one of our college's most beloved scholars, and the administration made it clear that nothing was too good for his retirement party. I've been looking forward to this dessert for weeks. If tonight's version is even half as good as the one from a few weeks ago, I'm about to bite into a piece of lemon custard cake that tastes like heaven.

Daniel eyes his slice of cake dubiously. When a server sets a mug of coffee in front of him moments later, though, he brightens.

"Oh," he says, sounding pleased. "Coffee."

Our server places a mug of cappuccino in front of me-something I asked for in advance, since it's my preferred vehicle for caffeine. But I nearly spill it all over myself when I see the design in the foam.

"It's a skull and crossbones," I blurt in surprise. There can be no other way to describe what I'm looking at. The skull in the foam has gaping, sightless eyes and . . .

Well, I didn't even know you could make milk foam look like this. The effect is creepy as hell.

"What do you think?" the server asks. She has pink hair and an eyebrow piercing, and looks way too cool to be at this party full of humorless economics professors.

"It's . . ." I begin, trying to think of a response that won't hurt her feelings.

"Too weird?" She bites her lip.

"Not at all," I insist. "It's just . . . unexpected."

The server takes it as the compliment I'm not certain it is. "Thanks," she says. "I was inspired by the season. It's almost Halloween."

It's only September 3, but I let it go. I force myself to smile and try not to think of the milk-foam skull staring up at me. I'm stressed enough as it is without it judging me, too. "Are you doing designs for other guests?"

She's already moved on to the next table, though, so I don't get her answer.

Daniel is peering into his own mug with an unreadable expression. "What did you get?" I ask.

"Coffee." He says this like it's great news. He takes a delicate sip. "Oh, that's good."

"I'm sure it is. They aren't skimping on this party." I crane my neck a little and peek inside his mug. Just normal coffee. Nothing creepy about it at all. "Fitting that I'd be the only one to get the cup of bad omen."

"Bad omen?" He looks inside my cup, then visibly recoils. "Oh."

"Yeah."

He hesitates, as if weighing whether he wants to say something else. "Why is it fitting that you would get a bad omen in your drink?" Instantly, he looks like he regrets the question. He busies himself with his coffee again, avoiding my stare.

My getting a bad omen is the most fitting thing in the world, of course. But I'm not about to tell this hot stranger about the terrible luck I've had my whole life. I'm not telling him that my dad walked out on us when I was four. Or, that while Jess and I were growing up, Mom only paid attention to us when she was between boyfriends. Or how, even after all that, I was the most irresponsible big sister my sister Jess could possibly have had.

I also don't tell him that Jess is getting married in a few weeks, that her fiancé is the only person in this world who loves her as much as I do, and how it'll be the joy of my life to stand up with them at their wedding. It's all right there, though, on the tip of my tongue. My happiness for them is so big it always threatens to burst out of me at the most inappropriate times.

"I got off to a shit start in life," I say, summing up. "Now that I'm an adult, I keep making things worse with bad decisions and bad jobs." And bad men. But he definitely doesn't want to hear that story.

Even that small disclosure seems to be too much for this guy. His eyes do that deer in the headlights thing again. "I'm sorry," he says, the words coming out haltingly, like he's never said them before. And then, to my surprise, he mutters, "I know all about bad jobs."

"Is your boss an overbearing micromanager, too?" I ask.

He opens his mouth to answer me. Shuts it again. His long fingers tighten around his mug's handle. "Yes."

"I'm sorry."

He gives a noncommittal shrug. "Yeah, well."

"And are the other people you work with idiots?"

A pause. "You have no idea." He gestures to his mug. "And the coffee is always terrible. Except on Mondays. But good coffee once a week cannot make up for all the horrors."

Now that he's stringing more than a few words together I pick up the barest hint of an accent in his speech. Russian, maybe? "Your job also acts like small office perks make up for poor working conditions?" I ask. Maybe we have actually something in common.

He doesn't answer that. When he does speak again, his voice is just above a whisper. "I fantasize about leaving. About a quiet, peaceful life. A deserted stretch of Maine beach, maybe. Someplace cold. Overcast. Where I would be left alone." He looks down into his mug. "Someplace where I could make the coffee exactly as I prefer it, and not just on Mondays. But it isn't possible. I am . . . stuck."

It's his longest stretch of words since he randomly appeared at my table a few minutes ago. He seems to instantly regret that, too. He presses his lips together as if to keep more words from spilling free.

"Living in a remote place does sound pretty great," I agree. "I'd prefer someplace warm, though."

His jaw works, but he says nothing. His startling eyes are back on his coffee.

Now that dessert and coffee have been served, the jazz band we hired for tonight starts playing. Professor Shiran shuffles from his chair, tugging an elderly woman who must be his wife along with him. Others follow suit, professors I recognize and family members I don't taking to the dance floor.

Professor Sims is out there, too, I notice.

Or, as I once called him: Ryan. The ex-work situationship who told me he didn't want a relationship five minutes before ending it with me-and about seven minutes before I walked in on him in his office with Professor Ashley Robinson. She's visiting from Stanford, not an admin like me with nothing but a few semesters of community college and a messy work history to her name.

She's dancing with Ryan now. Laughing in his arms. The few bites of lemon custard cake I've eaten turn over in my stomach.

I wasn't in love with Ryan, or anything close to it, but I still felt like an idiot walking in on him with Ashley that day. I should have known better than to mess around with a professor, especially given Ryan's reputation for fooling around with support staff. Just another example of my life being one big mistake after another.

Daniel, oblivious to my self-loathing, has gone back to glaring daggers at the notecard he was staring at earlier.

What would he do if I asked him to dance? There's a thought. He doesn't talk much, but maybe he likes dancing. Could I get him to hold me for the length of a song, maybe two, to distract me from how much I don't want to be here?

With how tightly he's clenching his jaw, he could probably benefit from a little distraction, too.

Jess wouldn't approve of what I'm about to do. She's never understood the medicinal value of flirting with men you know you'll never see again. Then again, she's been with her fiancé for five years.

Either way, she isn't here to see this.

At length, Daniel's eyes drift toward the dancers. With his attention elsewhere, I take the opportunity to study him. His eyes, I realize, aren't just blue. They're pale as glaciers, with a ring of silver circling each iris. His eyelashes are thick and long, the kind women pay exorbitant amounts of money to replicate. I can't help but wonder if they get tangled up every time he blinks.