Tyler #2
“I want you to keep an open mind,” Emma says, which isn’t an answer. “She’ll be at Cuppa at eight tonight. We need a decision fast if we need to keep looking.”
“If you tell me who—”
“Cuppa. Eight. Gotta go,” Emma trills into the phone before unceremoniously hanging up.
Scowling at my now-dark phone screen, I don’t bother trying to call her back. I don’t have nearly the power you’d think I would despite being number two on the call sheet for a megahit show—even over my own assistant. If Emma wants me to walk into this meeting cold, that’s what’s going to happen.
So despite not particularly wanting to drag myself out of the house after a long day, I make the short drive down to the coffee shop I’ve frequented since moving into the Hills.
It’s far enough out of the way of the usual tourist spots that anyone who recognizes me is likely someone else in the industry.
The locals and the staff are used to me by now.
Given my friendship with paparazzi-bait Gabe, it’s little surprise that people like to run their mouths about my big party lifestyle.
The truth is that I barely manage to stifle a yawn as I step into the cafe just before eight.
The sun hasn’t even been down a full hour, twilight lingering in shades of blue above, but I could easily crash now.
After ordering myself an iced tea and a couple of cookies as a consolation prize for a long-ass day, I slip into a booth tucked into the back and check my phone. There’s another text from Emma wanting to know if I’ve made it here.
Yes, I type back. Now will you tell me who I’m meeting?
Blonde, early 30s. You can’t miss her.
I scowl at the screen. I can begrudgingly admit that despite being cornered into hiring Emma, she’s usually pretty helpful. And yet tonight, for reasons of her own, she’s decided to screw with me.
I’d bail on the whole thing if it wasn’t for the fact that without a meteorologist, the trip doesn’t happen.
The insurance company won’t let me try to chase a tornado on my own, and even if they did, I don’t know what I’m doing.
People gossip about Gabe and I barely having two brain cells between us, but contrary to public opinion, I do know the difference between satisfying my curiosity and getting myself killed.
Emma, on the other hand, might have lost her mind.
She’s right—I can’t miss the blonde woman who walks through the door a few minutes later, her brows slanting down and her mouth pressed into a thin line.
She’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen her, dark jeans that show off her ass and a loose sweater that dips in the front.
She’s shorter than I remember, but she’s also in sandals instead of the deadly heels she had on the last time I saw her.
My thumbs fly over my phone. You can’t be serious.
She’s got the qualifications, Emma replies instantly. If you really can’t work with her, we can try to find someone else.
Try. I shove my phone in my pocket and get to my feet. With barely two weeks until this whole thing is supposed to happen, I don’t need Emma to spell it out for me. I’m lucky she found one potential replacement. There might not be another.
“Haley Morgan, my very favorite weather girl.” I pitch my voice low to keep it from carrying over the whir of espresso machines and milk steamers. It’s a gamble to use that phrase when she’s already told me she hates it, but I figure it will get her attention.
It might work a little too well. Haley whips around, eyes narrowed and spitting fire. It’s a look I remember.
Despite my better judgment, I haven’t entirely forgotten how that first meeting started.
The way that time seemed to slow for just a moment when she crashed into me and tipped her face up to mine.
I blinked. She blinked. I tried to form words, half wondering if I’d gotten something in one of my contacts—and then she opened her mouth.
Turns out the weird sensation in my gut was nothing more than the consequences of some questionable leftovers the night before.
This time, I blame my stomach flip on dread.
I’m about to try to charm a woman determined not to be charmed.
A woman who definitely isn’t happy to see me by the way her features contort into an almighty scowl.
The feeling is somewhat mutual—Haley Morgan isn’t the person I’d pick to spend a month in close quarters with—but we’re both here for a reason.
I know mine—and I have to think hers has something to do with quitting her job on the spot this morning.
“What are you doing here?” Haley’s eyes dip down to my chest and then dart back up. “I see you’ve finally found a shirt at least.”
I can’t help a grin. She’s prickly and cold as a glacier, but that day when she ran into me—quite literally—her hands were soft and warm on my bare skin. It wasn’t my idea to take my shirt off as part of the morning show interview, but two years ago I was dumb enough to go along with it.
Haley looked then, and she’s looking now. At least all those hours on that damn treadmill are doing something.
“What’s wrong, princess?” I ask with innocently wide eyes. Maybe matching her energy isn’t my best tactic, but I’m not in the mood to let her dictate this conversation. “Past your bedtime?”
“My name is Haley. Not weather girl. Not princess. Haley.”
I open my mouth to fire back, but then it registers. She sounds exhausted. Of course she does. Whatever pushed her into quitting her job, it happened this morning. And I know enough about morning news programs to know that it probably is past her bedtime.
“Sorry.” I scrub my palm over my face and try again. This time I remind myself that I might need her to say yes far more than she needs me to want her on this trip. “I grabbed a table in the back where we can talk.”
Haley gives me a weird look. “And why would I do that?”
Emma didn’t tell her either. Great. I lean closer to make sure I’m not overheard. “To talk about the…training. In Oklahoma.”
Haley’s face contorts into some interesting expressions. The sort of expressions that usually come just before telling a guy to fuck right off, but all she says is, “Is that what you’re calling it?”
I glance pointedly around the cafe. “You signed an NDA before you came here, yeah?”
Her mouth pinches with irritation. “Fine. After you.”
Neither of us speaks until we’re settled in the corner.
I slide one of the cookies I grabbed earlier across the table on a napkin as a peace offering.
Lana will flip out if it gets back to her that I ate two cookies only days before a magazine cover shoot.
But beyond the demands of my tyrannical trainer, I haven’t forgotten Emma’s implied warning.
Sugar is as good a peace offering as any.