Page 73 of Hard to Resist

An attendant steps off the train and leads us along the platform to the last carriage. Rachel steps inside ahead of me, then stops just beyond the door.

Dark wood panels cover the walls, and shaded lamps cast soft pools of light. Only one table is set. It stands beside the widest window, dressed in cream linen, white china, and crystal. Two deep-blue velvet chairs face each other across it. Beyond the glass, the last evening light rests over the hills.

I watch Rachel take it in.

The idea made perfect sense when I booked it. She cares about history. She runs a hotel filled with it. Of course she’ll love a restored train.

Then she stays quiet a little too long. I start to wonder if I’ve flown a woman into the middle of nowhere to show her some very old railway equipment.

Rachel trails her fingers over the carved wood beside the window. “They’ve done a beautiful job.”

She turns to me with a grin. “This is lovely, Eric.”

My shoulders ease. When Rachel turns back to admire the carriage, I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. I’ve stood before the board with four hundred million dollars at stake and felt calmer than this.

An attendant pours wine and leaves us with a basket of warm bread. A few minutes later, the train gives a gentle lurch and begins to move.

The station slips past the windows, followed by trees, open fields, and the last streaks of light above the hills.

I had three menus to choose from. One was a six-course tasting menu involving foams, tiny vegetables, and a waiter explaining every bite. I rejected it. I want to talk to Rachel, not pretend to care what someone has done to a pea.

The menu I chose starts with warm bread and salted butter, followed by roast chicken with lemon and herbs, crisp potatoes, vegetables, and chocolate tart. Nothing complicated. Just good food we can enjoy without someone interrupting every four minutes.

Across the table, Rachel looks around at the white linen, polished wood, and dark countryside passing beyond the windows. Her hair is still a little wild from the helicopter, and she has stopped trying to smooth it. Whenever she thinks I’m looking away, her smile returns.

“You really thought this through,” she says.

“A little.”

Her expression says she doesn’t believe me. She tears off a piece of bread and spreads butter across it.

“You know you’ve set an unreasonable standard for a second date.”

My glass stops halfway to my mouth.

A second date.

I lift the wine the rest of the way and take a slow sip, hiding my smile behind the glass.