The Bucket List

16.2 The Suit

Bastard.

There's no point arguing. I crawl into the vehicle without complaint and Chester closes the door with a snap, ignoring the state of my hair and clothes and the little grains of sand currently wedging themselves into the cracks and crevices of the leather interior of what is undoubtedly an absurdly expensive sedan. I have about half a second to feel sorry about that and then we're jetting away from the beach, weaving through traffic with expert precision.

I swipe more sand from my thighs. "Whatever Nichiolai's paying you, it isn't enough," I inform him mildly.

He catches my eye in the rearview mirror. I expect silence. Instead, I get a cheeky, "You're telling me."

A laugh bursts free at that small admission. "Chester! You do have a personality."

He shrugs, and I find I don't mind the silent treatment so much anymore. Not now that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt he isn't some creepy humanoid bot shoved inside a skin suit, which isn't exactly an unrealistic fear, given the portion of Ivanov Industries dedicated to militarized technology.

Chester. A weapon of mass destruction if ever there was one.

I'm not surprised when we turn onto an avenue of boutiques with price points so ludicrously beyond my budget, I almost start laughing again. I'm even less surprised to find Nicholai waiting there on the curb, looking like a walking advertisement in a gray three-piece suit, gold flashing at his wrist and collar.

He slides forward to open the door before Chester can unbuckle his seatbelt. "Miss Rossi," Nicholai says, offering me a hand.

Chester scowls at him through the rearview mirror. "That's my job."

"Take the day," Nicholai tells him, offering a wink that does absolutely nothing to soften Chester's impatient expression.

"Bye, Chester!" I toss a wave at where I imagine his scowl still lingers through the tinted windows, just as Nicholai snaps the door closed and guides me onto the sidewalk.

I turn to him, running an aggrieved eye over his neat little vest—followed by a more pointed look at my running shorts. "Uh, Nicholai—"

"Errands first, or food?" he asks, seemingly oblivious to the stark differences between us.

I am unamused. "I look like a rat that just crawled out of the dumpster."

He considers me. "Food first," he says with a nod.

"Hey!" I trot after him as he strides purposefully down the sidewalk, not bothering to consult his phone's GPS even once. "Are we going to talk about the fact that you've been MIA for two days?"

"Two days is hardly worth a fuss," he tosses over his shoulder.

Oh, not worth a fuss, is it? Seething, I catch his elbow and force him to slow to a more reasonable pace. "Nicholai."

"Amara," he shoots back.

"Am I going to get an explanation," I prompt, "or are you going to pry me with delicious food and beautiful things in the hopes that I'll let your little freakout at the cafe slide off my radar?"

His lips quirk at that, though his gaze is still focused on some distant horizon. "Option B."

"Of course," I mumble, but I don't complain when we enter a surprisingly shabby sandwich shop. Relief spears through me. The place is absolutely my speed, though Nicholai's designer suit and diamond earrings are laughably out of place amidst the rabble. He either doesn't notice or doesn't give a fuck—Option B, I think to myself grudgingly—because he greets the owner like an old friend, and I can only stare when they clasp hands over the counter, grinning like schoolboys.