Maggie Evans

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she whispered before clearing her throat. “These feelings we have for each other were so sudden, and the way we met was very… unique. But it doesn’t mean we should entertain this. I mean, how do we know we didn’t just get whisked away by the unexpected passion of a hostage situation?” My jaw threatened to crack with how tightly I clenched it. “Whisked?” “Yeah, whisked. Like… Like we’re a bowl of egg whites trying to be meringue, you know?” No, apparently, I didn’t know. Sadie sighed quietly. “It’s a lovely thought, but we’re not egg whites, Dav. And we’ll never be meringue.” I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it—wondering if I’d had a stroke—before putting it back. “Say that again in English.” “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “The last couple days have been like a fairy tale—well, one involving an alarming amount of blood. And instead of a princess in a tower, there was a man locked in a shed. But some time apart will give us a better perspective. For all we know, our feelings are the result of Stockholm and reverse Stockholm syndrome.” I closed my eyes. This girl would be the death of me.”
― Maggie Evans, Hot for Hostage