“No problem.” I hand them off.
I open a bag of trail mix of my own, not so much out of hunger after the last half-dozen cookies but to keep him company. For a few minutes we eat in silence, watching the icicle drips move nearer and nearer the coast out the window.
It’s a snap decision, but already I sense I’m going to like him.
I tend to have two types of clients—ones who feel the need to discuss every little decision ten times over, and the ones, typically men, who would talk about the weather in the middle of a heart attack. I’ve always had a special spot in my heart for the latter.
“I am a little surprised.” I note the time on my watch: 1:37. “I know they said they were running late, but it’s getting up there and there aren’t any trays in sight. We can’t be the only hungry ones.”
“They haven’t brought you anything?” comes a man’s voice over my shoulder, and I nearly toss my almonds in my startle.
He is far underdressed in comparison to the richly tasseled uniforms of nutcrackers and slippered elves, and yet there is an unmistakable sense of authority about him. Somewhere, I’d guess, on the southern end of his thirties. He wears a nutmeg cardigan, beneath which is a plaid button-up and matching tie. As he grips the back of my seat, I see the matching pair of snowflake-blue eyes as my Santa companion.
Ah. And here is his son.
“I’m fine,” Clarence says, a couple almond crumbs lingering on his beard to prove the point. He gestures to me. “I know how busy you all are—”
“I told Ian to bring your meal an hour ago,” the man protests, his frown between his brows deep. “He should have brought it to youwellbefore the others.” He stands and puts a hand on his hip. “IknewI should’ve done it myself—”
“Never mind, Oliver,” Clarence breaks in. “I know my way to the kitchen. And even so, I didn’t need to”—he nods to me—“thanks to my new companion here, who is admirably resourceful.”
And sure enough, I do glow a little inside at the accolade, both because I’ve been a little starved for compliments these days and because it really is satisfying to see the pink returning to his cheeks.
Oliver shifts his gaze my way for the first time, as though he’d been so engulfed in concern for his father that he hadn’teven seen anybody else in our section. He blinks and in that millisecond seems to register what is going on.
“MissFairbanks.” He reaches quickly forward to shake my hand.
I take it, a little stunned at how quickly I’ve gone from the invisible person to one of importance.
“On behalf of The Christmas Express, I want to express our gratitude. Jenkins says the Patel family is settling in very nicely. Truly, I cannot thank you enough. For that,” his eyes shift to his father, “and evidently, for this.”
“It was nothing,” I say, cheeks warming by all the fanfare of the last hour.
“Itwas.” He levels his gaze, his eyes so deep blue they hold a wellful of sincerity. “In a day when a hundred things have gone wrong, you have saved me not just from one disaster, but two.”
His gaze is so sincere and unyielding and his hand so warm in its grip of mine that I feel the temptation to giggle nervously like a schoolgirl. Almost.
“Now I wouldn’t go so far as all that,” grumbles Clarence from his perch, frowning as he looks out the window. “Now the derailment of ’69, that was a disaster...”
I bite my lip to button a smile as I look back to his son and let go of his grip. “A derailing train? Yes. Well. That certainly would better fit the description of disaster.”
“He exaggerates.” Oliver rolls his eyes. “A two-hundred-pound deer on the track doesnotequal derailment, or even the threat of it.”
“It was abigdeer.”
I laugh, which seems to please Oliver, and he shakes his head as if just realizing something. “I’m so sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. Oliver Lodge, conductor in chief.” He holds out his hand again, before he retracts it suddenly. “Ah. Sorry. Force of habit.”
“We can shake again,” I say, grinning broadly as I put out my own for a second time. “I’d hate to be responsible for breaking your routine. Nice to meet you, Oliver.” I give his hand a hearty second shake. “I’m guessing you’re following in your father’s footsteps.”
“Trying to. If we don’t break down first.” A distant clatter of a tray falling, from the sound of it, flows down the aisle, and Oliver sighs and checks over his shoulder. His shaking hand stalls but doesn’t let go. “Listen.” He looks back to me. “I would like to repay you for your kindness today—”
“Truly.” I pull my hand away. It was time to put my foot down about this. To stop the commotion. “No need—”
“Have you ever driven a train?”
Oh. The surprising shift in question succeeds in derailing me momentarily from my stop-praising-me agenda. “Well... no.”
“Would you like to?” A rather charming grin slips up one cheek. “Makes quite the story at dinner parties. You’ll be a hit.”
