Page 30 of The Unfinished Line

And I didn’t. I don’t know why I was so incredibly nervous.

Dillon studied me, her thoughts unreadable, before discarding her ginger beer on the outdoor table. She crossed to sit in the adjacent chair, drawing her knees up to her chest.

“Kam-Kameryn,” she said with a dramatic sigh, her chin resting on her hands. My only saving grace from utter humiliation was the lurking smile behind her placid expression.

I shifted, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

“I would tell you to relax, but I feel it might be a bit like telling a drowning person to swim.”

She dropped her bare feet to the floor and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her face level with mine. “How’s this—I’m going to tell you my plans for the evening. Then maybe, if you approve, we can get on with this night without you flinching every time I come within a few feet of you?”

I had no idea what that meant, but I must have nodded, because she continued.

“I’d like to sit here for a few minutes, enjoying the ridiculous poshness of this suite while my sponsor foots the bill. I plan toappreciate the view, the company, and the fact that I can sit out here in short sleeves while my friends at home are freezing the balls off a brass monkey.

“Then, I’d like to go inside. I intend to shower, change, stretch—my usual routine. After, I’ll come back out and offer you the ensuite while I brew a tea—or coffee, if you’d rather. We’ll chat. I want to know what daily life is like living in Hollywood. And learn more about your hidden rebellious streak that pinned you most likely to lead a protest. At that point, I’m going to take the couch, and you’re going to take my room. You’re going to toss and turn and fret all night, because, well—that seems to be who you are. And I’ll sleep soundly, because I’m knackered. At seven AM, I’ll go for a swim, come back, knock you up for breakfast, and we’ll start our day again from there.” She sat upright. “Would that be acceptable for an itinerary?”

For someone who excelled in soliloquies, my talents certainly let me down at the most inopportune times. With no cohesive thoughts forming, I tried to buy myself an extra moment to think. I needed something witty, something casual, to hide my embarrassment. Embarrassment, relief, disappointment. I hadn’t realized you could experience all three conflicting emotions in such short succession. So, in an effort to delay, I opted to take another sip of my drink—but my motor skills appeared to have eloped with my ability to speak, and I somehow managed to miss my mouth, losing half the soda down the front of my tank.

“Oh, for the love of God.” The only thing I could do was laugh. “Just shoot me now.” I wiped away the ginger beer dripping off my chin.

Dillon’s smile returned. “That’s not part of the schedule, Kam-Kameryn.”

The layer of ice I’d managed to materialize since we arrived at the hotel began to melt, and along with it, my tension.

Despite the ridiculousness of an agenda—leave it to me to require one—the evening played out as she said it would, and an hour later I reemerged from showering to find Dillon sitting on the living room floor, applying K-tape to her left knee.

“Kettle’s on, if you want a cuppa.” She didn’t look up from her project.

I poured a tea, then wandered to the middle of the room. The comfort of the hot shower had helped restore my sense of humor.

“I know the blocking put me on the couch at this point in the scene, but does your directorial style allow for minor improvisation?”

“I’d say there was some space for self-expression—just so long as you don’t get too carried away with your ad-libbing, Miss Kingsbury.”

“I’ll stick close to the script, I promise,” I quipped, dropping to sit cross-legged beside her.

Of course, now that I knew she had no expectations of me, it was human nature, I suppose, to want what was no longer up for offer.

I watched her tape an intricate line of zigzags around her knee. It was a process I was familiar with after playing varsity soccer.

“Did you get hurt today?” I asked, watching as she laid the final strip beneath her patella.

“This? No.” She straightened her leg, grimacing at the various snaps and crackles from the effort. “Just wear and tear from an old ACL repair. I usually can’t feel it in the warmer weather. With Alecia on the field today, I probably pushed it a little harder than I had to.”

“Is that who won? Alecia Finch?” Hers was a name I’d become familiar with during my accelerated crash course as Itried to brush up on my knowledge of triathlons. She was an American. One of Dillon’s strongest competitors.

“Alecia?” her brow furrowed. “God, no. I couldn’t let that happen. Not on a fast course. She’d have rubbed it in my face all next season. I beat her by over a minute.”

“I thought you said… when I asked you earlier…?” I was confused and it must have shown, because she laughed.

“I won today. I just could have been faster.”

“And I thoughtIwas self-critical,” I tsked.

“I guess we’re our own worst critics, right?” She clapped her hands to her thighs, closing off the subject, which in turn drew my focus back to her legs, where I noticed a coin-sized tattoo just above her ankle. It was a soccer ball.

She saw it caught my attention.

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