Page 174 of The Night Shift
Her frown deepens. “But I didn’t even get to touch you.”
I take her hand and press my mouth against her palm. “There.”
Her thumb traces my jaw. Light and slow like she’s testing the shape of my face and committing it to memory. The pad of her thumb lingers at my pulse, searching for an optimal soft point to ram her scalpel in.
“Mm, that feels nice, Hollister,” I murmur.
“I’ve told you to stop calling me that.”
“And I’ve told you, I don’t really care.”
Her nails flex against my skin. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
“Yet, you can’t stop touching me.”
Scowling, she yanks her hand back, nails scraping my skin.
I hiss at the sting, watching as she twists her hair into a messy ponytail and leans back against the seat. “I’m hungry,” she states.
“There’s candy in the glove compartment.” I check my skin for blood. Nothing. Disappointing.
She shoots me a wary glance. “I’m not eating moldy car candy.”
“It’s not moldy. I packed it this morning.”
Still skeptical, she pulls open the glove compartment. “What the fuck is this?”
“Candy.”
Holly picks up the box of raisins between her thumb and forefinger like it might be diseased. “In what universe areraisinscandy?”
“They’re healthy.”
“They’reraisins.”
I clip my seatbelt in place. “Just try one. You might like it. Or if you want, we could make a game out of it. You could sit back and let me throw them in your mouth. Five in a row earns you a kiss on the cheek?”
My brilliant suggestion isn’t even dignified with a response.
Holly tosses the box of raisins into the back seat and tucks her knees against her chest, curling into the seat, her back to me. I resist the urge to reach over and smooth a hand over the back of her hair.
A heavy silence settles between us. Something even heavier presses onto my chest.
I nudge her shoulder.
She groans.
I do it again.
Her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowed. “What?”
“There’s a packet of crisps in the compartment on the door.”
Her expression softens. She grabs the packet without hesitation, ripping it open and shoving a handful into her mouth like some kind of feral creature. Crumbs spill onto the seat.
I wince. “Hollister —”
“Stopcalling me that.”
