" Instead, I gave them the only salute I could think of.
Two middle fingers. Held high for emphasis.
The six fiery orbs winked out at once. Hopefully, they’d died from affront.
Ben eyed me sideways as he maneuvered from shore. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Those red-eyed jerks were on the cliff,” I spat, then immediately felt silly. “All I could think of.”
Ben made an odd huffing sound I couldn’t interpret. For a shocked second, I thought he was furious with me.
“Nice work, Victoria.” Ben couldn’t hold the laughter inside. “That oughta do it!”
I flinched, surprised by his reaction. Ben, cracking up at a time like this?
He had such a full, honest laugh—I wished I heard it more. Infectious, too. I couldn’t help joining in, though mine came out in a low Beavis and Butthead cackle. Which made Ben howl even more.
In an instant, we were both in stitches at the absurdity of my one-finger salutes. At the insanity of the evening. At everything. Tears wet my eyes as Sewee bobbed over the surf, circling the southeast corner of the island. It was a release I desperately needed.
Ben ran a hand through his hair, then sighed deeply. “I love it,” he snickered, steering Sewee through the breakers, keeping our speed to a crawl so the engine made less noise. “I love you, sometimes.”
Abruptly, his good humor cut off like a guillotine. Ben’s body went rigid. I felt a wave of panic roll from him, as if he’d accidently triggered a nuclear bomb.
I experienced a parallel stab of distress. My stomach lurched into my throat, and not because of the rolling ocean swells.
Did he just . . . what did he mean when . . .
Oh crap.
Ben’s eyes darted to me, then shot back to open water. Even in the semidarkness, I saw a flush of red steal up his neck and into his cheeks.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Shifted again. Debated going over the side.
Did he really mean to say he . . . loved me? Like, for real?
The awkward moment stretched longer than any event in human history.
He said “sometimes,” which is a definite qualifier. I love Chinese food “sometimes.”
Mouth opened as I searched for words that might defuse the tension. Came up with nothing. I felt trapped in a nightmare. Balanced on a beam a hundred feet off the ground. Sinking underwater in a sealed car with no idea how to get out.
Ben’s lips parted, then worked soundlessly, as if he, too, sought to break the horrible awkwardness. A verbal retreat, or some way to reverse time.
Is that what I want? For Ben to walk it back?
A part of me was astounded by the chaos a single four-word utterance could create.
Ben gulped a breath, seemed to reach a decision. As his mouth opened a second time, all the adrenaline in creation poured into my system.
“I . . . I was just saying that . . .” He trailed off, then smacked the steering wheel with his palm. Ben squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head sharply as if disgusted by the effort.
Ben turned. Blasted me with his full attention. “I mean it. I’m not going to act— "

― Kathy Reichs , Terminal (Virals, #5)