Page 83 of The Night Shift
“Try again.”
“Because I can’t sleep around untrustworthy people!”
“Oh, right. That’s me?”
Her jaw tightens, and her eyes narrow into a blazing glare. “I don’t need your protection. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can. But do you always have to?”
This seems to disarm Holly. Her eyes soften, her spine still a rigid rod. Her lips, pressed into a thin, tight line, falter and soften, just for a moment — as if her resolve is finally beginning to crack under the weight of her frustration. She looks at me — really looks at me. Everything about her countenance is steeped in regret. Her eyes flit away, the tip of her chin dipping just a fraction. A blush blooms on her neck, delicate as a rosebud, and my chest tightens with a curious tug. Not fear. Not even fascination. It’s something warmer. Something wholly and completely different.
“Please leave,” she insists.
“Holly, you’ve begged me to leave twice in the past minute. You’re obviously not in the right frame of mind. I cannot leave you alone.”
“I did notbegyou to do anything —”
“Saying the word ‘please’ qualifies as begging, Hollister —”
“Don’tcall me that —”
“You’re being unnecessarily stubborn —”
“I’ve never done this before!” she blurts.
I frown. “What?Sleep?”
My sarcasm doesn’t strike any nerves this time. Instead, Holly takes a breath as if the next few words are really hard for her to say, “No, I’ve…I’ve never had a man sleep in my apartment before.”
Her words hang in the air.
Something deeper than the thrill of getting a rise out of Holly stirs within me. “Holly,” I say, my voice soft. “I promise you’re safe with me.”
It’s hardly a promise, but a statement of fact. Of course, she’s safe with me. I’d die a thousand deaths before letting anything bad happen to her.
A harsh scoff leaves her mouth. “Says the man who’s been stalking me for the past three — no, two and a half years.”
“Precisely. Who better to protect you from your stalker than your other more superior stalker?”
“Fuck your protection.” She turns the other way.
I reach for her hand. My fingers brush lightly against the inside of her wrist, and she stops, her shoulders tensing. When she turns back toward me, her expression is unreadable but her eyes flicker with something raw and unguarded. Her chin lifts a fraction. There’s a tremor in her fingers. Her eyes soften and for a moment, her walls crumble. But then I feel the shift in the air. I see the way her fingers fidget with each other, the way her eyes flicker towards my mouth before darting away again. She's trying to push me away, to maintain this fortress she's built around herself, brick by brick. But I see the cracks too, the places where the mortar crumbles, where the light seeps in.
An eternity passes before she finally speaks. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”
The victory is small and fleeting but a victory, nonetheless. “That’s too bad,” I respond, my voice teasing. “Your bed would be so much more comfortable.”
Her glare returns, although it lacks its earlier bite.
“That was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
She pushes me aside and fishes a bottle of painkillers from her drawer, throwing it towards me.
I catch it with my right hand, grinning, even though the action just sent a throbbing pain up my torso.
“The pills are for the pain. I don’t want your stupid whining to wake me up at night.”
