Page 81 of Cross the Line
“Oh my God, sweetie…” She hops in front of me, patting down my trembling arms. “Are you okay?”
“I… I’m… oh shoot! Your coffee. I spilled your coffee. I’m sorry, Summer.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. That guy was harassing you.” Tugging me toward the studio door, she sorts through her keys. “Fuck, you’re shaking.”
“He knew my name,” I murmur. “Finley-James.”
Summer bundles me inside before locking the door behind us. Like we’ve done since people found out I work here, she lowers the blinds across the front of the office.
“Breathe,” she tells me. “Try to relax. I can call the cops and?—”
“No.”
“Oh—o—okay.” Summer moves a stack of files on my desk beforeperching herself on it, pulling a pack of baby wipes from her purse. “I never leave the house without a fresh pack. It’s a mom rule. Remember that when you get there.”
I smile faintly as I clean the sticky, milky coffee off my hands, then focus on the sleeve of my sweater dress, scrubbing furiously at the cream wool.
Ryker knew my name, and I don’t know how. Aside from Elijah, nobody else uses it out here. Maybe Jayden’s said it a couple of times, but…
“That guy,” Summer starts, brushing my hair from my face. “He looked familiar. Like the one from the bar. The one Alice kept pointing out.”
I nod. “Ryker Hallman. He’s also the guy from the article…”
“Alice was right—he’s a creep.” She heads to the kitchenette and starts up the Keurig. “This calls for caffeine and sugar.”
The sweet caramel scent fills the air, followed by a warm hint of chocolate.
“Donut Shop mocha latte for you,” she croons, placing a yellow, daisy-painted cup with a lilacFon it in front of me. “And a salty caramel latte for me… because I’m salty about the fact we’re not calling the cops right now.”
“I can’t.”
Her brows knit over her bright blue eyes. “Why? The asshole’s harassing you. He knows where you work?—”
“Everyone knows where I work,” I say with a grimace.
“I hate the media.” With a sigh, she adds, “You looked scared, Finley.”
“I’m fine, Summer.”
“Well, motherfucker is being blacklisted from the bar…” she drawls, tapping out a message on her phone. “Right… freaking… now.”
She shows me the screen. Three dots appear beneath her message to her husband.
Summer
Ryker Hallman. Blacklist.
The dots vanish.
Parker
Done.
Do I need an alibi? Lawyer? Bail?
Summer cackles as soon as she reads it. “Crazy man,” she mutters, typing back—but before she can hit send, her phone rings. She answers while walking to her desk. “I said no, bossman. Stand down, Parker. No one is fucking with me.”
Giving her privacy, I head to the bathroom.
