Page 45 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Can I tell you something?” he says.
“Is it going to make me hit you with my camera bag again?”
“Probably not.”
“Proceed.”
“If I were going to be trapped in a mall during a blizzard with anyone—you’re not so bad.”
Simple. Almost throwaway. Except his voice does something on not so bad that is the opposite of casual. A drop. A softening. The vocal equivalent of a hand extended slowly across the void.
And heaven help me, I sort of want to reach back.
No. Bad Everly.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Benson,” I say to the ceiling.
BECKETT
I can’t tell what’s louder: the sound of my breathing in the dark, or the thunder of my heart.
This is…bad.
What’s wrong with me? I have zero business catching feelings for the coach’s daughter of all people. Least of all this coach’s daughter. And yet, here I lie (and have been for the last fifteen minutes) wondering if she’s lying awake too.
There’s no way I’m getting to sleep like this.
Not a chance.
Five feet away, Everly shifts on her couch. I roll back to my side. With the flashlights turned off, the amber emergency lights outside the store offer very little to see by. I can barely make out the outline of Everly’s shoulder—shaking?
I hold my breath, and that’s when I hear it. She’s shivering.
“Everly…”
The shivering stops, her frame stiffening. “Yes?”
“You’re cold.”
“What? No, I’m not. I’ve got n-nice w-w-warm Chri-Christmas bedding.” Her voice loses all control, and by the end of that sentence, she’s full-on chattering.
I sit up and turn on the flashlight. Everly is curled up in a ball, knees to her chest, breathing into her blanket. “Oh, for the love, Evie. Just—” It’s a bad idea, Benson. Don’t do it. Don’t. “Just come over here.”
“No.” Teeth click.
“Everly.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s it.” I slide my feet to the floor and cross to her couch.
“What are you?—”
I toss aside the blankets and scoop her up. Two seconds later, I drop her onto the pull-out. I snatch up her pillows from the couch and toss them at her, along with a few decorative ones. “Build yourself a wall.”
I flick the flashlight off and flop back onto my side of the pull-out, one arm up, hand supporting my head.
“…didn’t have to be so pushy…” she grumbles under her breath as she stuffs pillows down the middle of the bed, building a barricade between us. “And I don’t know how this is supposed to keep me warm.”
