Page 41 of Cross the Line

Instead of listing all the nice things Carson had done, I decided to tell her the one I knew would make the biggest impression. “He asked Emerson Thorne-Crawford for her number. For me.”

I’d already reached out to her, but I wasn’t holding my breath that I’d hear back. Emerson was busy, and there was no way someone as famous as her just…handed out their personal number. That was crazy.

“Oh shit,” Georgia whispered, knowing how much I idolized Emerson Thorne-Crawford. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve dated, but Logan, Carson doesn’t want to be your friend. He like-likes you.”

“Georgia,” I chided. “We’re not in middle school.” But instead of chafing at her words like I would’ve in the past, I found myself smiling. “And we’re just friends.”

“Yeah. Okay. Keep telling yourself that.”

I huffed, more annoyed with myself than anything. Georgia was right—this “friendship” with Carson was beginning to feel like something more. But that was the last thing I needed or wanted. I was focused on my career and my goals. I had my friends and my teammates. My life was full, my schedule jam-packed. And I wasn’t interested in a relationship or dating; I’d been very clear about that.

If only my body would listen.

Because my body couldn’t stop thinking about him. That hug. This morning… I swallowed hard, pushing away those thoughts.

“I know you say you’re just friends with Carson, but do you want to be more than friends?”

I squeezed my eyes shut briefly. Because that wasn’t a question I wanted to entertain. I enjoyed his friendship; anything more was impossible.

“It’s never going to happen.” And then I listed off all the reasons why anything more than friendship with Carson wasn’t an option. My goals. My career. His career. The distance. My brother.

When I’d finished, Georgia asked, “Do you think maybe you like him because he’s ‘safe’?”

“Safe?” I barked out a laugh. “Carson’s the furthest thing from a safe choice. My brother hates him.”

“Exactly,” Georgia said. “Maybe it feels ‘safe’ to like Carson because you’re convinced it can never amount to anything.”

I shifted on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. Had I imagined it, or was there a tinge of sadness to her voice?

I thought back to what Kylie had mentioned at Thanksgiving. About Georgia seeing someone and being disappointed that she hadn’t been invited to spend the holiday with his family.

“And maybe,” Georgia continued, the sadness replaced by anger, “you should stop letting your brother—or anyone else—have any say over your love life.”

“Um…okay. You seem to have some really strong feelings about this,” I teased.

“I—” She took a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. Your brother is not my brother.”

“True, but we both know what brothers can be like.”

She laughed at that. “Right. So annoying at times.”

“When you mentioned picking someone ‘safe’…are you speaking from personal experience?” I asked.

“I, um…” She hesitated and blew out a breath. “I will admit that I have not always made the best choices when it comes to men. And yes, maybe some of the guys I was with in the past did seem ‘safe.’ In the sense that I was guarding my heart by picking someone who would never choose me. But I’m done with that.”

“Good,” I said, hearing the conviction in her tone. “You deserve someone who sees, and loves, you for who you are. Because you are incredible.”

“Thanks.” She sniffled. “Back at ya, babe.”

We were quiet a moment, and then she said, “I get why you’ve kept your friendship with Carson a secret. But if you like him at all, even just as friends, don’t let him feel like you’re embarrassed to be associated with him. Because that’s the worst.”

The comment I’d made about Carson not wearing my jersey in public or online came to mind, and I cringed. I hated the idea that I’d made Carson feel like I was ashamed of him or our friendship, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Even so, I knew my actions hadn’t reflected that. And it made me even more grateful that I’d confided in Georgia.

Even so, I was worried about her. I clenched my fists. I wanted to punch whoever had made Georgia feel less than.

Finally, I asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe another time,” she said, her tone brightening in a way that told me she wasn’t entirely okay, but she was trying to be. “I have gifts to wrap.” And then she started humming an upbeat Christmas carol.