Free Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) by Julie Johnson Page A

comes to protecting the love of his life.
    I’ll give you a hint — rhymes with hate .
    He’ll definitely be there and, in Lila’s mind, that amounts to one thing — her plans finally being set into motion.
    Hence the series of increasingly urgent text messages on my phone. As I watch, my cell lights up with a new one.
     
    Lila : ANSWER ME! Otherwise I’m coming over, kidnapping Boo, and holding him for ransom. You know I will.
     
    God, all this scheming is messing with her head — she’s becoming downright maniacal. I don’t doubt her threats, though, so I tap out a response, a vindictive grin twisting my lips as my fingers move over the screen. After the torturous Captain Kirk incident… I can’t stop myself from returning the favor when such a prime opportunity presents itself.
     
    Phoebe : Actually, I’m not feeling well… I don’t think I’m going tonight.
     
    My phone rings immediately.
    I laugh as I connect the call and lift it to my ear. Before I can get out a single word, Lila starts yelling.
    “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU AREN’T GOING?! This is the plan, you ungrateful cow! You’re not backing out. I won’t let you. Not after everything I’ve done for you! Not after all my hard work and advice and outfit planning and eyebrow shaping and years of straightening the back of your hair whenever you can’t reach that fuzzy layer that hides underneath! No. Phoebe Evangeline West, you are going to that fucking gallery opening looking like the finest piece of ass Knox has ever seen, even if I have to drag you there myself! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!”
    Wow, she didn’t even pause to take a breath.
    “Lila—”
    “I SAID DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR? ”
    “You’re acting like a crazy person.”
    “You’re the crazy one if you think I’ll let you get cold feet!”
    “My feet are actually quite warm, I’m wearing those sheepskin L.L. Bean slippers Parker bought me for Christmas last year—”
    “That’s it! I’m coming over there and kicking your ass.”
    “Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “I’m going to the opening! It was a joke! Please relax. No need to kick my ass.”
    Stony silence blasts across the line.
    “Lila?” I suppress a laugh. “Still alive?”
    “That was not funny.”
    “I don’t know, I thought it was pretty amusing.”
    “I can still come over there and kick your ass.”
    I stop laughing instantly. Lila does Krav Maga. For fun . She could totally kick my ass.
    “Sorry,” I mutter, like a five-year-old forced to apologize for kicking her sister under the table at dinner.
    “Apology accepted,” she says breezily, threats of bodily harm already forgotten. “I have a dry-bar appointment at Blo tonight, so I can’t help you get ready. Can I trust you to wear something scandalously hot without me there to run interference?”
    “Firstly, my closet is bigger than yours. Secondly, I’ve spent twenty-four years dressing myself. I think I can manage one night without you.”
    “Mhmm.” She murmurs, as though she doesn’t quite agree. “See you there. Seven. Don’t be late!”
    She clicks off.
    “Bye,” I say to dead air, for the second time in as many hours.
    My life is so fucked.

Chapter Seven
     
    True friends don’t judge one another.
    They judge other people.
    Together.
     
    Phoebe West, ruminating on friendship.
     
    By the time seven rolls around, nervous butterflies have taken up residence in my gut. I watch Boston drift by through tinted glass in the back seat of the town car I hired for the night and try to ignore the damned winged demons flinging themselves at my stomach lining on five-second intervals. The sun has nearly set — its dying rays turn the Charles River into a copper mirror as we drive over the bridge to Cambridge. Shifting in my seat in a vain attempt to get comfortable, my eyes absently track the movement of Harvard crew teams, their oars moving in perfect tandem, their sleek boats gliding across the gleaming surface like water bugs on a