“What a vile little creature,” March notes, the faint smile on his lips belying his harsh assessment as he brings a cup of espresso to his lips.
“I prefer to think of him as an Epicurean,” I tease, moving closer to rest my head against his arm. Warm muscles cushion my cheek under the fabric of his shirt. We were able to change before boarding, and he’s back to his eternal uniform: navy jeans, impeccably pressed white shirt, and since we’re working, a holster.
March raises a single eyebrow at the shuttle and toasts it with his espresso. “A modern Diogenes, rather.”
I clasp a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle while he sets the now-empty cup on the counter. His arms encircle me, stroking my back through the worn cotton of my navy hoodie. With every slow glide of his palm, I forget the relentless hum of air rushing along the fuselage, the rustle of Frederick burrowing in his litter. March and I are looking into each other’s eyes, like when we fight or when we make love. Like during our very first date in Tokyo.
“Are you happy?” he asks quietly.
I tilt my head at him, unsure whether this is about our daring escape, my upcoming birthday weekend, or maybe some bigger philosophical question. A crease appears on his forehead as he tries to gauge my reaction. I get it; he means now. In this new life, at Struthio Security, with him. I can’t stop the grin splitting my face. “Yes. Of course, yes . . . What about you? I’m always scared you’ll get bored eventually. I mean, it’s not always routine—obviously—but there’s also paperwork, crappy meetings with guys who think it’s a good idea to deal crude in Yemen right now.”
March retired from his former career as a hitman to open Struthio a year and a half ago. It was his decision, taken during the months we spent apart after we met. But I know he ultimately did it for me, so we might have a chance at an almost normal life together: it makes me feel responsible for his happiness, the same way he feels responsible for mine, I guess.
“Reckless oil magnates will make excellent clients once they decide to ignore my recommendations,” he replies, his hand rising to comb back auburn curls from my cheek. “But to answer your question, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. I . . .” His tongue darts to lick his lips. He’s looking for his words. “I like going to bed every night knowing I’ll wake up at your side in the morning.”
March doesn’t open up often—at the moment, it could be a lingering effect of the night’s rush of adrenaline—but dammit, whenever he does, I can feel myself glowing from the inside out, warm and fuzzy all over. I lean forward, losing myself in the dark waters I know so well. “It’s the same for me, and actually I try to keep at least half of my thoughts about you to myself because otherwise, I’m worried you’ll think I’m a walking, breathing overly attached girlfriend who’s plotting to poke holes in your condoms and customized her video game characters to look like us.” When his brow slowly rises, I blurt, “The condom thing was a terrible joke, and I never thought of doing that.”
March’s lips purse until they all but disappear in an effort to conceal a quivering smile. “I have absolute trust in you.”
I’m red. I can tell I am; my ears feel on fire. Did I seriously go there? It’s not like I even want kids right away. I do think about it, I guess, in the hazy way of a girl who’s been in a committed relationship for almost a year, and who sometimes tries to peer through the fog ahead and get a glimpse of what the future might hold. However, I usually keep my musings to myself, precisely to avoid that kind of Freudian slip. March is seven years older than me—more than old enough to become a father—but he’s never broached the topic until now, and that wasn’t how I imagined we’d discuss the possibility of passing on our genes to a litter of mini-mes . . .
March’s gaze hasn’t left me, but his previous amusement has given way to a thoughtful expression. “Have you ever given serious thought to the subject?”
I honestly didn’t think he’d pull that particular thread. My cheeks blazing, I scramble for a coherent answer that will convey neither outright dismissal nor creepy eagerness, but the rational take of a mature, well-adjusted young woman on the topic of motherhood. “I don’t know. I’ve investigated it, but all I could realistically picture was the chestburster in Alien.”
He blinks once, twice. “Well, I hadn’t considered childbirth under that angle.” A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows, that only fuels my emotional turmoil. I said the wrong thing. I think I’ve upset him and now he’s seeing the chestburster too.
“But kids are . . . good,” I blurt. “I mean, I want to have them at some point, just not tomorrow, I guess. And if something happens, I’ll manage. I won’t let them starve or swallow LEGOs or anything like that. And I’ll kid-proof my outlets.”
His lips stir. Scratch that, his whole face lights up for a second before his self-contained mask falls back in place. “I’m certain you will. In any case, I want to reassure you that I have a contingency plan ready to address any unforeseen development on that front.”
Rotwang rises from his seat and lumbers to the lavatory, but I barely notice him. My eyes are set on March’s unblinking ones. Does he mean . . . ? “What’s in the plan?”
“I’m afraid it’s highly classified.”
Wait, what? He put together a secret contingency plan in case I get pregnant—which admittedly sounds like him—and my security clearance isn’t high enough to know what’s in it? “Aw, come on! You can’t just drop a bomb like that and prance off!” Throwing apprehensive glances left and right, I ask, “Is it in a PowerPoint?”
“Yes. Fifty-three slides,” he confirms in the same secretive tone.
“Show it to me!” I whisper-shout, glancing at the kids over my shoulder.
All I get for my efforts is a stern look. “In due time.” But the glint in his eyes doesn’t lie. He’s loving watching me squirm on white-hot coals. Steering me back toward our seats, he asks, “Speaking of emergency, any update from Joy?”
Dammit, he knows me too well, and his distraction tactic works to perfection. I plop myself in the seat across from his and immediately grab my phone. The last update Joy sent me was a live review of AA’s chocolate chip cookies at 6:22 pm local time of arrival, shortly before landing—overall great and just the perfect amount of chewy. Nothing since. She’s on voicemail, and it’s almost 10:30 in Cancún.
A nagging feeling I’d set aside creeps back up my nape. “She’s gone silent,” I tell March. “Logically, someone should be swiping off Vince’s ashes from the floor by now.”
I punch at the screen with my thumb to try another vid call. No answer.
March’s eyes meet mine, reading the worry simmering there. “I can think of a thousand reasons why she’d need some time alone . . .”
“Yeah, but it’s not like her. Normally, she’d have sent me a complete report by now. Joy isn’t the type to bawl in a dark corner and go all emo under her blanket fort. That’s me.”
“Quite true. I thought you’d never recover from the ending of Logan,” he recalls.