Page 202 of Beautiful Collide

Why yes, it can.

Trophies and medals still line the shelves.

It’s a shrine to my childhood.

I watch Molly as she takes it all in. She stops at the desk, where a photo of Anna and me sits. We’re both grinning like idiots, holding up a snowman we built in the backyard one winter.

“This is so . . . you.” Molly smirks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She glances at me, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . it feels like stepping into your head. It’s kind of nice.”

“Nice?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “I was going for impressive.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, there is nothing impressive about that.” She points her finger toward the bed, making me laugh.

“Touché.”

Molly walks over to the bed and sits. “This is going to be . . . interesting.”

“Interesting is one word for it.” I cross my arms at my chest.

She sighs, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Okay, ground rules. No snoring, no hogging the blankets, and absolutely no crossing the invisible line down the middle of the bed.”

I smirk, tilting my head. “Invisible line, huh? Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not,” she says firmly. “You stay on your side; I stay on mine. Simple. No sex in your parents’ house.”

“You’re no fun.” The thought of being this close to her all night without crossing that line sounds like its own brand of torture.

“Do we have a deal?” She holds out her hand.

“Another deal.” I wink.

“Oh, shut it.” She shakes her head. “Yes or no?”

I hesitate for a second, then step forward and shake her hand. Her skin is warm against mine, and I forget how to let go.

“Deal,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I intended.

She pulls her hand back quickly, clearing her throat as she stands. “Good. Now, let’s figure out where to put my stuff.”

After unpacking her bag and finding room for her things in my closet (barely), we settle into an awkward rhythm.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching as she arranges her toiletries on the small desk by the window.

“This feels like something you would see in a movie about summer camp,” she mutters, lining up her travel-size bottles of shampoo and lotion. “I never went, so I wouldn’t know, but I imagine it like this.”

“Except at camp, you don’t usually have to share a bed with your bunkmate,” I point out.

She glares at me over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, well, don’t remind me.”

I laugh, leaning back on my hands. “Relax, Hex. It’s just a bed.”

“A bed we’ll be sharing for lord knows how long while we hide away from the press,” she says, turning to face me. “This is your fault, you know.”

“My fault?” I say, feigning offense.

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