Page 2 of Between the Lines

“You missed your old stomping groundsso badlyyou’re filling in for them, huh?”

“Can we get to the point here?” I ask, tapping the toe of my Oxford to interrupt their banter.

“Right. Sorry. I just need you to verify that Ms. Benson works here.”

“Stop calling me that, Danny. It sounds too professional.”

“It is yourname, isn’t it? That’s what the kids will?—"

“She works here.”

Their faces snap from flirtatious to stunned when I interject.

“Do I need to sign something?”

He shakes his head, says, “Yeah,” and hands me a clipboard and a pen. My neat, all-caps name dots the line on the paperwork, right below Claire’s loopy, girly swirls. The juxtaposition is so far in opposition that World Wars could start on either side of those trenches.

“Well,” I nod, and start heading toward the front door, where the alarm is still blaring. By the time I flip up the keypad to turn it off, Claire and Danny are still giggling together in the parking lot. It grates onto every one of my nerves.

“Ms. Benson,” I bark. She snaps to attention, ducks her head, says goodbye to the officer, and carts her several different bags and cups to the front door.

“Sorry. Just wanted to tell him?—”

“What door code were you given?” I ask. No offense to her, but I don’t want to hear it. I want to get into my office and maybe put my head down for ten more minutes to make up for the sleep I lost when I’d gotten my early morning wake-up call.

She swallows.

“Five-one-nine-two-eight.”

I sigh and shake my head.

“See? I even wrote it down.”

She holds up her hand. Yes. Herhand. Where smudged ink reveals a line of numbers that are eighty-percent correct. A quick glance to her other hand, which somehow holds both a large, sweaty Dunkin’ iced coffee as well as an obnoxiously large Stanley tumbler, and I have my culprit.

“Thatonewas supposed to be a seven,” I say, indicating the smudged ink.

“Oh! Crap! Sorry. I think I used this hand to carry in my coffee, and it must’ve washed?—”

“Please do your best to not make this mistake again.”

I’m tired. My head is pounding. The phantom blaring horn of the semi-truck from my dream still rings at the edges of my subconscious.

She swallows again, flushes a deeper shade of crimson.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Her wide blue eyes stare up at me from beneath long lashes. I have to stare down my nose to see her. I tower over her. It’s the first I’ve noticed.

At six-foot-two, I tower over most. But for some reason, Claire Benson seems to be stories beneath me. Somehow, she still meets my gaze, still locks onto my stare until I nod in affirmation and open the front door.

“I’m so sorry again,” she says, accompanying the hum of the overhead lights as they buzz to life with the motion of us in the hall, and the squeak of our shoes on the newly waxed floors. “I just wanted to get here early to go over my checklist for the first day. I want to do Juliet justice.”

I sigh.

It’s a nice sentiment. Truly. I just don’t have the headspace for it right now.

I nod, use my fob to unlock the main office, and take a sub key from the lock box behind our secretary’s desk.

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