Page 38 of Between the Lines

“I do, do I?”

I ask Claire more than I do Drake, lifting a brow.

“Thosearethe rules of the holiday. I don’t make ‘em.” She lifts a shoulder. “Don’t come crying to us if one of the students makes fun of you.”

My body warms at her little tease, and I have to force myself to pay attention to my duty.

The three of us work in companionable conversation, mostly centered around students who are coming in and going out, and when we’re planning on taking a break for dinner.

“I definitely signed up for the free pizza,” Drake says, leaning back in the chair behind his table. He has removed the Sheriff’s hat and is playing with the badge.

“We literally get paid fifty bucks to sit at this table for a few hours, and you’re more concerned about pizza?” Claire chuckles.

I get paid one hundred, but that’s simply because I’m administration, and I have to be here after the event has wrapped up to make sure all of the students have been accounted for.

“I guess an extra fifty in my bank account won’t hurt,” Drake shrugs.

“Well, I can go and grab us pizza,” Claire offers. I was silently hoping that Drake would be the one to go, to leave Claire and I alone for a moment. The few times we’ve conversed have left me aching formore, and I don’t know what to do with that aside from seek it out, like she’s the high and I’m the addict.

There’s a weird grip around my heart, like a loosely tethered noose waiting to tighten when it comes to Claire. It’s an itch I’ve been both wanting to scratch and wanting to dismiss. Regardless, she stands to leave with our orders for pizza and leaves me alone with Drake.

“Okay, so they only had two slices of pepperoni left. I took one for the team, which means one of you owes me big time—shit!”

If I thought the sight of Claire in a pretty dress stole my breath, my lungs might as well cease to function at the sight of her in a tangled heap on the floor. Three plates of pizza are smeared across the tile—one face-down on the skirt of her dress. She is braced on her palms, like that’s where she caught herself. She looks stunned by the fall more than anything, but my heart feels like it’s on the outside of my chest.

“Woah! Benson! You okay?” Drake asks. But he barely moves to push his chair back, and I’m already to her.

“Mr. Lawson, could you please find the group of students who just stampeded through here? I’ll attend to Ms. Benson.”

I don’t recognize the voice that comes out of me.

“What about the tables?”

“Ms. Lucy is in the gym with Mr. Russo. Let her know that she’s needed out here. You can reach her on my walkie.”

I remove the walkie talkie from my belt clip without taking my eyes from Claire.

The more I assess, the less injury I see. She’s shocked and embarrassed more than anything. I still won’t be convinced until I can get her off this disgusting hallway floor. Without even thinking, I offer her my hand. She hesitates for only a moment before slipping hers into mine, and if I mishear thatclickwhen our palms lock together, then for once in my life, I want to be wrong.

eighteen

claire

I’ve hadthis nightmare so many times before that it’s almost ironic it never came true. I finallydidfall flat on my face at school—but instead ofmycafeteria trayandin front of my peers, it waswith three plates full of pizzaandin front of my coworkers.

Somehow, this is ten times worse.

I’m covered in pizza sauce, and I’m pretty sure there’s a stray pepperoni stuck to the bottom of my shoe, but I’m really okay—a fact that Nathan apparently refuses to accept, considering the fact that he still has my hand in his as he all but drags me to the front office.

I thought the shock of hitting the floor was the impact that put my heartbeat off kilter. Instead, it’s Nathan holding my hand. The warm, fuzzy feeling from human contact. The pulsing squeeze, even as he has to use his keys to open first the front office, then his own.

Nothing, however, could prepare me for the shock of his hands on my waist as he lifted me up onto his desk and stepped between my spread thighs.

Because holyshitdid that knock the wind right out of me.

But he stays removed. Clinical, even, in his assessment of me. His eyes are hard and focused, but that doesn’t stop my breathing frombeing shallow, doesn’t stop my pulse from fluttering like a hummingbird’s, doesn’t stop wetness from pooling between my thighs as his hands skim along my arms?—

God, Claire, you can’t think like that here.

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