Page 39 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“I’m a thriller writer, not a motivational speaker.”
Beckett turns to face me, frustration plainly splayed across his face. “Where do you suggest we go?”
“I don’t know.” The cold from the exit is seeping into the air, and I wrap my arms around myself.
Beckett’s gaze dips, something in his expression shifting. “We gotta find a way to stay warm.”
I give him a look. And then—watching my face—the implication hits him. His ears go red. Well, well. The Blue Line blushes. That’s new.
“I was thinking we raid the Penalty Box for sleeping bags,” he says quickly.
“There’s no camping section. It’s a hockey memorabilia store.” I aim my flashlight down the corridor. “We should go to Hearthstone Home & Living. They’ve got display beds, pillows, and most importantly, sightlines to both exits. We could each claim a separate fake apartment and pretend we live alone.”
“You want to split up?”
As in, what? We’re together?
The question is quiet. Genuine. As if testing the ice between us.
I still, my heart staggering over the question. “Not really…”
“So…we hunker down together?”
“I’d prefer to think of it as tactically adjacent.”
I swear I see a smile flicker across his lips. “Tactically adjacent it is.” He makes a show of stepping back for me to pass. “Lead the way.”
I turn in the direction of Hearthstone Home & Living, but my stomach objects—loudly. The rumble bounces off the walls. My mind goes back to the dark car ride home from the gala—to Beckett’s peace-offering cookie. My gaze wanders a different direction, toward Blake’s Café.
“Before we hunker down for the night, we gotta make a pit stop.”
BECKETT
Blake’s Café is a different world in the dark. Without the music, the space feels tiny, intimate. The mismatched mugs on the shelves catch our flashlight beams and throw small glints across the walls. Chairs sit flipped up onto the tables. The bakery case—stripped down to nonperishables—holds the remains of the day’s inventory: muffins, scones, a tray of doughnuts, a few cookies arranged on a ceramic plate.
“This is your idea of dinner?” My flashlight pours over the contents of the display case as Everly rounds the counter.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t have any protein shakes,” she says, sliding open the case. “Besides, we’re just going to take the day-old pastries. By morning, they’ll be two-day-old. We’re doing Helen a favor.”
“You’re a real hero.”
She flashes me a look, sets a maple-glazed doughnut on the counter. “Come to the dark side, Beckett. We have doughnuts.”
I let out a sigh. “Doughnuts for dinner. You’re a bad influence, Hart.”
She fights a smile, but I can see it—lips pressed tight, one side tugging slightly. It does something to me. A challenge posed. Oh, now I have to make her smile.
I take the doughnut as she pulls out the rest of the tray—chocolate glazed, cake doughnuts, bear claws, a handful of muffins and cookies—and packs them up into a paper bag. Placing the bag on the counter, she rummages around near the register, finds a pen, and scribbles a quick note. She folds the note around a few bills and leaves it resting on the register.
“All right, let’s eat.”
We sit on stools at the window, facing the corridor to Sutton Arena. I’ve seen Everly sit in this exact place a million times, every practice—until her parents split and she stopped coming as often. I never thought I’d find myself on this side of the glass…with her.
I take a bite of the maple doughnut, and the sugar hits my bloodstream like a rescue flare, waking up every part of my brain. “Oh man, that’s a good doughnut.”
“Helen makes the best doughnuts,” she says, picking through the bag for her selection. She settles on a long john, elbows perched on the counter, relaxed and in her happy place. She does this funny dance as she eats, as though the flavor is music to her lips.
My gaze dips to her lips?—
