Page 12 of The Reluctant Reaper
“And what d’you mean, ‘letting’ me come? Like you could’ve stopped me.”
“I could have. You wouldn’t have liked it.”
Gray waved away her casual threat, walked past the kitchen to the lounge at the other end, ignored the plush couch, and flopped onto the nearest La-Z-Boy hard enough to make it rock so violently it almost pitched him to the floor.
“Tell me you have a private chef and a bartender,” he gasped, holding on as he stared up at the dome. Her second favorite spot in the railcar. At night, the stars streamed by, maddeningly close.
“There is no bartender. And we don’t need the chef for this trip.”
“Ah-ha! So the private chef exists, elsewhere for now.”
Amara shrugged.
“Cooooooool. So if you have a private train?—”
“It’s just the one railcar.”
“—I’ll bet you have a private plane, too.”
She shook her head. “It’s unnecessary. My father is old-fashioned and never leaves the Midwest.”
“Because he’s Death for Minnesota and Iowa and Wisconsin.”
“And Michigan and the Dakotas and Illinois and Nebraska and Ohio. And parts of Kentucky. We don’t follow strict geopolitical boundaries. At least, not Midwestern ones.”
Gray started to reach for his phone. “And Missouri? I think Civics covered that. I might’ve missed that day... actually, I missed a crap ton of days.”
“The US Census Bureau decided Missouri counted as the Midwest. Not my father.”
“Ma’am?” She turned to see the friendly porter and had to resist the urge to turn her back. “Your other guest is ready to board. Can I get you any?—”
“No. We’re fine.”
“Oh.” She was earnest and redheaded and sweet and Amara couldn’t stand the sight of her. “Okay. Well, if you n?—”
“We’re fine. Thank you.”
Gray sat up and waited until the porter was out of earshot. “I know that look,” he stage-whispered, which wasn’t whispering. “You gave her the shoulder earlier, too, and you almost never do that. You’re pretty polite for a sociopath with great hair.”
“Thank you. And yesterday you said I had terrible bangs. Be consistent with your casual criticisms, please.”
“So when’s that poor girl gonna bite it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Jesus.” Gray leaned back in the chair. “Do I even want to... ?”
Smoke inhalation. There was small comfort in knowing she’d be spared burning to death. “No. You do not.”
“I’m sorry. All this stuff—” He waved vaguely at the plush carpet, the soft chairs, the lamps, the view, the dark wood, the gleaming brass accents, the large windows so clean it was like therewereno windows, the four bedrooms, the double beds... “It comes at a cost, right? Some days maybe it’s not the best trade-off.”
“Most days.” She smiled, because she adored the idiot. “But I like that you like it.”
“Yeah, well, I—oh, look, here comes the Marlboro Man. I don’t know what’s worse, that he’s gorgeous or that he knows he’s gorgeous.”
“I heard that!” La Croix bounded up the steps, beaming and immaculate and hilariously puffy. The moment he felt the warmth of the car, he shrugged out of the pile of Gore-Tex he called a winter jacket.
“You know that’s a woman’s coat, right?” Amara teased.
