Page 63 of Between the Lines

“Listen, I am not leaving here until you get out of the way.”

It just stares at me, its tail flicking back and forth. Amused.

Little asshole.

“Are you talking to Hamburger?”

Fia’s voice makes me jump, and I bang my knee on the coffee table.

“Fuck—” I groan, silencing myself as she covers her mouth, suppressing a laugh.

“What is happening out here?” She steps towards me into the living room, hands resting on her hips, right above her tiny cotton shorts.

“I wanted to reconnect the sound bar for you real quick, but—” I gestured to the cat.

Fia moseys over, picking up the feral thing. “Hammy, it’s okay. We can be nice to Caden. He’s a friend,” she coos, kissing her cat’s face. She is one brave woman.

“Friend?” I ask before I can catch myself.

Fia bites her lip. “I just—” She shrugs.

I look around, arms open wide, and though my chest feels tight, I succumb to the truth I’ve been fighting. “I think friends is a fair label.” I turn back to the TV. “This will only take a minute.”

Fia walks away, but then I hear the distinct sound of the freezer opening. I glance up over the TV screen and see her reading the label on the pint of ice cream.

“I should go straight to bed, but I can’t without at least trying this . . .”

I laugh, turning on the TV to check that everything is working again.

Fia appears next to me, holding the dessert. “Do you want to stay?” she asks. “You can’t leave me unattended with three pints of ice cream.” She lifts a brow.

It’s endearing, and even though I’m sure she would say she looks messy and tired, in the dimly lit living room, she’s beautiful.

“Uhm . . .” I glance at the kitchen with the small round dining table, like it will give me answers. Then back at the woman asking me to stay.

Eating ice cream together is innocent. It’s probably the most innocent thing.

“Yeah, why not,” I reply gruffly, and Fia nods with a small smile.

“Great, you can pick one of the other tubs. I’m sorry, I’m not sharing this one.” She pulls the pint in her arms close to her chest. “Moose Tracks is all mine.”

Fia plops herself on the sofa, a spoon sticking out of her pint, and grabs the remote.

I follow suit, and even though it’s not something out of the ordinary—eating a snack at night on the sofa in front of the TV—usually I do it without a racing heart. And alone.

Hamburger sprawls out on one end of the sectional, and Fia’s in the corner with her legs propped up on the side . . . so I’m forced to sit next to her. There or the floor, and the latter would make it obvious that I feel something. So I sit in the corner of the sectional beside her, my back pressed into the cushions, legs stretched in front of me down the length of the chaise.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m fifteen again, alone at a girl’s house for the first time.

“If you keep making me dinner and bringing me sweet treats,” Fia says, mouth full of ice cream, “I may claim squatters’ rights and never leave this place.”

I glance at her long bare length draped over the sofa and smirk.

“Maybe that’s been my plan all along,” I mutter.

But then the air goes still, and Fia looks over at me. She’s inches from me, and I’m all too aware that if I even flexed my shoulder a little, it would touch hers.

“I have to admit, this is nicer than my old house,” she says, spooning another bite. “But it will be good to get home.” She doesn’t sound all that convincing.