Page 10 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“E.J.! There you are.” Bree’s got the look of a woman who’s been trying to tame lions for the last hour in a blazer made of steak. “The line is wrapping around the table. I’ve got people asking when you’re coming back. I’ve been telling them you’re having a moment of artistic contemplation, which sounds better than hiding in the bathroom but?—”
“I’m coming.”
She pauses, her gaze snagging on every line of my face. “Are you okay? You look?—”
“Fantastic. I look fantastic. Just…give me thirty seconds.”
She holds up a finger. “Thirty. Then I’m dragging you out by your lanyard.” Then she frowns. “Where are the books?”
I sigh. “Long story?—”
“Never mind, I’ll get them.”
Right. I hand her the keys. She leaves. I stare at the mirror, and I do what I always do when reality gets too real.
I put on a mask.
I’m E.J. Hartley. I write thrillers. I’m here to sign books for charity. Nothing happened in that elevator. Nothing.
I straighten up, take one last look, then head back to the ballroom.
The signing line is long—Bree wasn’t exaggerating. But my stomach is eating itself, and I haven’t had food since the sad granola bar I inhaled in the car on the way here, and if I’m going to sit and be charming for the next hour, I need sustenance.
Also, I’m cold. I reach for my black sweater, and for a second, all I can think about is?—
Nope. Delete, delete.
I spot Bree coming back from the car, box of books in hand. That was fast. “Bree, I’m grabbing us food first. Two minutes.”
“E.J. No?—”
“Two minutes. You want crostini?”
“I want you at the table.”
“Crostini it is.” She’s going to murder me, I know it. But at least I won’t die hangry.
The buffet is half picked over, but there are still mini quiches and those little toast things. I grab two plates—one for me, one for Bree—and start filling up. I’ll admit, maybe the close call with Beckett has me stress eating.
I make it to the end of the line before I spot the drinks and realize two hands aren’t going to cut it. I snag an empty serving tray from the end of the buffet. I’m sure nobody will mind.
I’m arranging the plates when a shadow falls over the tray.
A hand places an empty Perrier bottle between the mini quiches and the crostini. “Thanks.”
One word. Casual. Already turning away. Already looking at his phone.
Cedar and sandalwood.
My entire body goes rigid. I’d know that scent anywhere, because I spent the last forty-five minutes wrapped in it while its owner told me things that rearranged my understanding of the universe.
I stare at him. He’s three feet away, looking at his phone, and he has absolutely no idea. No idea that I’m the woman from the elevator. No idea that I’m Sutton Blake. No idea that his jacket still has the warmth of my body in it.
He glances up. Our eyes meet.
Ice blue. The same eyes I saw in that one flicker of light.
Um. Hi?
