Page 39 of The Unfinished Line

“First class?”

“Business, at least,” said Dillon, tucking it under her arm as they started the trek across the sand toward the car park.

“So,” Kam stopped to dig through her pockets in search of her keys as they approached her car. “Have you come to a conclusion?”

“About?”

“Whether you plan to see me again. Have I made the cut for breakfast?”

Coming up behind her, Dillon brushed aside her dew-damp hair and kissed the nape of her neck, drawing her lips slowly to rest against her ear. “What if I said the verdict was still out?”

“In that case,” Kam huffed, feeding into her teasing, “I’d tell you—”

Her rebuke was cut off as she attempted to unlock the doors, inadvertently hitting the wrong button and setting off the car alarm. The sedan’s headlights flashed and the horn and siren wailed, disturbing the peacefulness of the late-night atmosphere. “Shit!” She fumbled with the fob, punching at buttons until she silenced the car.

“You’d tell me what?” Dillon smiled against her temple. “To get stuffed? To go to hell?”

“Something like that.” Kam leaned back against her.

“And what if I told you,” Dillon whispered, breathing in the intoxication of the simple warmth of her body, the scent of her saltwater hair, “I was hoping for breakfast… lunch… dinner…midnight coffee… afternoon tea… whatever time you’ll give me…?”

“Well, then,” said Kam, carefully disentangling herself and reaching for her door handle, “I’d tell you I’d have to check my schedule. To see if I could pencil you in.” She offered her a lofty smile before climbing into the driver’s seat of her car.

“Don’t break my heart, Kam-Kameryn. I make a pretty good omelette.”

“I thought it was the girls who kept you up all night that owed you breakfast in the morning?”

“There’s always an exception to the rules,” Dillon laughed, bending down to kiss her before closing her door.

Scene 15

My apartment seemed smaller, older, more cramped than it ever had before. I didn’t know what I was thinking, inviting her here. Asking her to stay here.

Or, well, I knew what I wasthinking. We both knew what I was thinking. Whatwewere thinking. This wasn’t a one-sided agenda.

But now I was having second thoughts.

Not aboutthat.

I mean, it still occasionally flitted across my mind, the question of what the hell I thought I was doing—what exactly I had going on here? But for the most part, on that note, my worries were a distant matter. I’d cross that bridge when I actually managed to get there.

My primary concern currently revolved around this apartment, which I had previously loved.

It suddenly no longer felt up to par.

I imagined Dillon’s flat was on the upscale end of London. From what I’d seen in the background during the few occasions we’d FaceTimed, her home was organized, modern, with high-beamed ceilings and a private balcony overlooking the River Thames. It wasn’t the 1920s, copper-plumbed, five hundred-square-foot, Art Deco one-bedroom I lived in. The one I was presently loathing.

She’d booked a chic hotel a block off the beach in Venice. I could have stayed with her there. Last night, that had been my intention. After leaving the pier, it had been safe to say, neither one of us planned on sleeping alone.

But then, of course, true to Murphy’s Law—which often seemed to be the guiding statute of my life—there had been no parking. I’d circled the block three times—almost as distracted by the narrow one-way streets as I was about her hand casually resting on my thigh—but it had come to no avail. There wasn’t a single parallel space I could pull into, legal or illegal. I’d have gladly taken the risk of getting towed for squeezing into aloading zone, but it appeared I wasn’t the first desperate driver willing to roll the dice on a Saturday night over the holiday weekend.

Heading into my fourth rotation of the surrounding blocks, it occurred to me I could invite her back to my place. But at the same time, it also dawned on me I’d neglected to finish washing my dishes, and it would have been nice to change my sheets, and there was a possibility all my clean towels were still wrinkled in my hamper.

So instead of making a rational decision, like realizing she probably wouldn’t care if I had cups on the sink, or if my towels weren’t folded in the linen closet, I panicked in my growing agitation, and stopped double-parked in front of her hotel, throwing on my flashers.

“Well,” I blurted, “tonight was fun. See you in the morning?”

Even in the moment, I knew I’d caught her off guard, but she was too considerate to question the change in our unspoken plans, no doubt assuming I’d lost my nerve.

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