Page 95 of Random in Death

“You don’t need to.”

“But I do. I do need to. Do you want me to feel stupid?”

He only lifted his eyebrow. “It would seem that’s in your hands, not mine.”

“Oh, fucking fuck.” Turning away, she tried counting to ten. Made it to five. “This money thing makes me feel stupid, and makes you feel insulted. Which would be in your hands, ace.”

He slid his hands into his pockets, felt the gray button he carried.

A cheap suit, loose threads, and she’d given him a talisman he carried everywhere.

“I suppose it is. Regardless, it should be somewhere in your Marriage Rules, that what we have, we share. The good and the bad of it.”

“It’s probably in there,” she muttered. Maybe she’d put an asterisk on that line to remove money from it—and that, she admitted, was on her, too.

“I just need to pay you back. It doesn’t mean anything to you, a few hundred. But it does to me, especially since I damn well know I’m going to get comfortable and careless again. Then I’ll feel stupid, and annoyed with both of us, when you peel off a few hundred and hand it to me like I’m…”

“My wife?”

She tried one more careful breath. “Your stupid, careless wife.”

“You’re neither of those things. Hardheaded, hard-assed come to mind.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’d say we’re pretty evenly matched on that one.”

“Difficult to disagree.”

“I need to pay you back so it’s not such a big stupid deal every time, for both of us. It’s just a loan, not a ‘Here, dumbass who can’t keep enough cash in her pocket to pay for a slice of babka, let me peel off a few from the wad in the pocket of my zillion-dollar suit.’

“And it makes me feel more of a dumbass when I put the damn cash in the pocket of pants I not only didn’t have to buy, I didn’t have to think about buying. So I need to pay you back. That’s it.”

“Let me say this first. I enjoy filling your closet the way you never will. You shouldn’t begrudge me my small pleasures.”

“Only you would call that acreage of clothes in there small. And I’m standing here wearing stuff you put in there. I’m grateful for it.”

She stopped, shoved at her hair.

“Shit, I probably should’ve said that sometime along the way, probably a few dozen times. I am grateful you like what I hate, and I don’t have to carve out time for something I hate, like shopping.”

“I don’t need thanks,” he began, but she shook her head.

“Yes, you do. It’s not you paying for them, because, Jesus Christ, I don’t want to think about what you paid for these boots. It’s embarrassing. Even a little horrifying. Or it would be if I thought about it, so I try not to. It’s not the money. It’s the time and thought. I’m grateful for it.”

“Darling Eve.” He sighed it out, and his eyes had gone warm again. “You intrigue me, constantly. I know who you are, what you are, how you think, how you feel, and still, you intrigue me. Constantly.”

He took a step toward her, cupped her face in his hands before brushing his lips to her.

“Take the money back, okay? I pulled enough.”

“We’ll make a deal, shall we? When you run short because you’ve been busy hunting a killer, or standing over the dead, you’ll tell me. No bloody shite about it. Then you’ll graciously accept a loan.”

“A loan I could accept. The graciously might be a tough reach.”

“Graciously,” he repeated. “Then, when you’ve had time to deal with it, I’ll graciously accept repayment.”

“No bloody shite about it?”

“None.”

---