“You could just run over him," I said. "He's already dead, and it's not like you haven't done it before."
"Yeah, but I don't want bloody bits of dwarf stuck on my wheels for the next two weeks." Finn sniffed. "This is an Aston Martin, Gin. You don't run over dead bodies in an Aston Martin."
"Tell that to James Bond."
Finn shot me a dirty look as he pulled out onto the street.”
“This is an Aston Martin, Gin.You don't run over dead bodies in an Aston Matin."
"Tell that to James Bond”
“That's what this little conversation is all about. The talk about my knives, the stroll on the terrace, the handholding and come-on about what my scar sounds like. Interesting technique. Tell me, what was your next move? Maneuvering me up against the wall here? Or me accidentally falling on your dick?”
“Too bad the smile was on the face of the wrong man.”
“Donovan Caine wanted me, but he wasn’t strong enough to accept me. Not my past, not my strength, not the woman I was. Bitter disappointment filled me, replacing my rage, but I forced myself to ask the final question I wanted an answer to...”
“In the end, the only thing, the only person, you could ever count on was yourself.”
“Folks who said you were a coward if you ran away from a fight usually didn’t live long themselves.”
“Celery, apples, golden raisins, lemon zest, and a sour cream–mayo dressing flavored the chicken salad, while the crusty bread provided crunch and contrast. I alternated with bites of my strawberry-and-kiwi fruit salad, tossed with lime juice, vanilla, and just a hint of honey.”
“What are you thinking? Sandwiches?” Finn asked in a hopeful voice. “No. I’m in the mood for something sweet.” I grabbed the butter out of the fridge, then rummaged through the cabinets. Flour, oats, dried apricots, golden raisins, brown sugar, vanilla. I pulled them out, along with some mixing cups, a baking pan, a spatula, and a bowl. Finn settled himself at the kitchen table and drank his coffee while I worked. By the time Jo-Jo walked back into the kitchen, I was sliding the batter into the oven. “Whatcha making?” the dwarf asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Apricot bars,”
“I grabbed a cloud-shaped oven mitt, opened the oven door, and took out the apricot bars. The smell of warm fruit, sugar, and melted butter filled the kitchen, along with a blast of heat. A combination I never grew tired of, especially on a cold, gray night like this one. I grabbed another oven mitt, set it on the table, then put the pan on top of it. Finn’s fingers crept toward the edge of the container, but I smacked his hand away. “I’m not done with them yet,” I said. “Come on, Gin,” he whined. “I just want a taste.” “And you’re just going to have to wait, like the rest of us.” Jo-Jo chuckled, amused by our squabbling. I moved over to the cabinets and got out four bowls, some spoons, and a couple of knives. I also grabbed a gallon of vanilla bean ice cream out of the freezer. After the apricot bars had cooled enough so they wouldn’t immediately fall apart, I cut out big chunks of the bars, dumped them in the bowls, and topped them all with two scoops of the ice cream. My own version of a quick homemade cobbler. Jo-Jo swallowed a mouthful of the confection and sighed. “Heaven, pure, sweet heaven.”
“So that's how you know Donovan. You knew his father."
Warren nodded. "Daniel Caine, a fine man. Donovan is too. But he's not the one for you.”
“There are no fates I cannot change, but this fate is one I cannot change without you. You are my strength, Rain. You are the courage I've always lacked."
He gave a choked laugh, and tears glittered in his eyes. "If I am your courage, then why does this idea of yours leave me so frightened?”
“There's nothing wrong with having a different way of learning. What's wrong is when people blame you for it.”
“Jack, get a grip of yourself.'
I have a grip of myself.' Jack took a grip of himself. It was a most intimate grip; not the kind of grip that you usually take of yourself in public.”
“Honor?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to do things to you now that a good girl definitely shouldn’t let a man do to her.”
“Common sense, indeed!” said the Rocket indignantly; “you forget that I am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination, for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don’t care. The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated.”
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