Page 14 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
First thing we agree on.
If you think it was difficult getting her to let me carry that box, it’s nothing compared to convincing her to let me drive her home. I throw in a “Coach said, and you’d be doing me a solid to get on his good side.”
And still, “I’ll walk.”
“It’s six degrees out—and a blizzard bearing down.”
She shrugs. “Heat wave.”
“Negative fifteen windchill.”
Side eye. Contemplation. Desperate glances at the Uber app. And finally, “Fine.”
Inside the Range Rover, the heater blasts. She buckles in and immediately turns toward the window. The silence between us suddenly has mass and density.
I try: “So. Thrillers.”
“Yep.”
“How long have you been?—”
“A while.”
“Cool.” Can’t say I didn’t try.
The windshield wipers scrape over a patch of stubborn frost. I can hear myself breathing, which means she can too, and I am now self-conscious about how I breathe, which is a new personal low.
“Nice car,” she offers, in the tone of a hostage complimenting the decor.
“Thanks. I bought it with all the money I get being overpaid to chase a rubber disk.” I wait for a chuckle. A hoot. Anything.
Silence.
Then, with what I can only describe as cosmically designed comedic timing, both our stomachs growl.
Not a delicate rumble. A full symphonic declaration of neglect. Hers first—a low, rolling thunder. Then mine—a reverberation you can almost feel through the floor of the car.
I clamp my jaw. Stare straight ahead.
Her stomach growls again.
And…I just…break.
I let out a snort. Then a laugh I can’t swallow.
She breaks second. That reluctant, traitorous sound—more breath than voice—like her sense of humor staged a coup against her dignity.
I spare a glance in her direction. “When’s the last time you ate?”
She shoots me a look, one brow raised. Cool. Sharp. But not biting. “I stocked up on mini quiches.”
Right. I flip on my blinker. “I know a place. Best cookies in Minneapolis. Ten minutes from?—”
“No.”
One word. Clean. Final. A door not just closing but deadbolting and pulling a dresser against itself.
“It’s just cookies. I’m not proposing?—”
