Page 43 of Grim Tidings

“And you’re an immortal being that doesn’t feel the cold.” I shrug. “You’re the one who made the list. Let’s go.”

I climb out of the truck, slamming the door behind me hard enough to rattle the whole thing. The skies are overcast today, everything a dull, gloomy gray.

Darcy follows me with a healthy dose of hesitation. “I always pictured doing this when the sun was shining, you know? A nice peaceful meadow somewhere and …” She stares pointedly at a garbage bag with a massive tear down the middle. “Less beer cans.”

“Close enough.”

I’m calling her bluff. If she’s not serious about achieving her damn list, we can pack right back up and return to the bar. If it’s the lie I think it is, she’ll fold before she jumps into the stagnant body of water, riddled with water striders and whirligig beetles. She can tell me what she knows, and we can be rid of each other.

Finally.

Her eyes flare in challenge. “The dock is right through there?”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Yup.”

Darcy nods. I wait patiently for her to backtrack. This hasn’t been a functional boat ramp for years. It’s mostly abandoned. Perfect for forcing a Reaper’s hand.

I expect a demure excuse and maybe some hand-wringing. I’ll be graceful about it, of course. No hard feelings. But when we get back to town, I’ll—

“What are you doing?”

Darcy toes out of her boots, rolling her arms to wrench them free from her black wool jacket. She tosses it over the hood of the truck, then bends and neatly stacks her shoes by one of the tires.

She’s wearing pink socks. I’m pretty sure there are polka dots on them. She rolls those off too, her bare feet pale against the gray gravel of the drive.

“Well, I’m not going to jump in my clothes. I have no interest in riding back to town sopping wet.” Her hands curl around the bottom hem of her sweater and she starts to tug it up.

“Whoa. Wait a—” The sweater goes over her head. I tip my face up to the sky, but not before I get a glimpse of smooth skin and black lace.

I curl my hands into fists. “Darcy,” I bite out.

Darcy’s laugh is low and soft, like smoke over the water. More fabric rustles. “I’m sorry. Is the Guardian a prude?”

“I’m not.” I might be. “I just don’t know if this is the best idea—”

“It was your idea,” she interrupts. Her voice is closer now.

Fingertips gently touch my neck, and I exhale a choppy breath. Her skin on mine feels electric, and I have no idea why. “You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?” she asks softly.

I tip my chin down, keeping my gaze resolutely above her neck. She’s so close I can see the constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“I might have been fucking with you,” I confess.

Her eyes narrow with her smile, dangerous. “That must have been very difficult for you to admit.”

“That’s not what I find difficult right now.”

It’s a confession I had no intention of making, but I can’t seem to be anything but honest with Darcy. Her eyes soften and her fingers slip from my jaw to my neck.

“Look at you,” she hums. She drops her hand. “Being honest.”

And then she’s gone. A flash of bare skin and dark hair streaming behind her. She must have undone her braid when she was pulling off her sweater.

Her feet pound against the wooden dock and she releases some combination of a pterodactyl screech and rebel yell. The sound echoes off the water and bounces through the trees, shaking the leaves and making my throat feel too tight. Her launch from the dock is graceful and she tumbles into the water with a splash and a wild laugh.

I stare at the place the water ripples out, dumbfounded.

I really didn’t think she would.