2. Dallas
Two
Dallas
“ A nother nice, sunny day for the Little League, but everyone be sure to pack sunscreen because UV levels are high. After three PM, an easterly wind will sweep through and make for a blustery day, so hold on to those hats.”
My mouth rattles off the weather report for the day as I stand in front of the green screen which will become a map of the area.
The studio lights are hot and dazzling, and a bead of sweat runs down my spine beneath my royal blue suit.
A red light shines in my direction, letting me know the cameras are rolling and I’m live on air.
“There’ll be scattered showers around five PM in the west, clearing up for another dry night.”
Is Shelley watching me right now? I can never tell with all these lights dazzling me—I can only hope, then feel like a tool for wanting my crush to watch me at work.
“Temperatures are projected to fall fast overnight, so to all those summer campers out there, pack plenty of warm layers.”
I mean, it’s not like presenting the weather is such a turn on anyway.
Right? I’m standing here with a powdered face and a garish suit that looks better on camera, sweating beneath my clothes and fighting the urge to itch my neck.
Giving cheesy advice to the city’s residents about their summer plans.
Maybe it’s better if Shelley doesn’t watch this.
Not that I’m ashamed of my work or anything. Ever since I was a little boy and I first watched the Twister movie with my dad, I’ve always been obsessed with the weather. Getting to work as a weatherman each day is a dream come true.
But maybe I don’t want Shelley to see me as the cheeseball presenter that everyone else sees. Maybe I want her to see me as a—as a man.
The red light blinks off, showing that I’m not live on air anymore, and I scoff to myself and tug at my shirt collar. People bustle all around, rushing to set up the next segment after the anchors are done. The sound guy comes over and starts unfastening the mic from my lapel.
“Was that alright?” I find myself asking, still thinking about a certain makeup girl. Was she watching? What does she think of me?
The sound guy glances up, a little startled, then shrugs one rounded shoulder. He’s dressed in a faded black Metallica t-shirt, and he smells faintly of Doritos. “Sure, man. Seemed fine to me.”
I nod, turning slightly to give him better access to the wires running down my back beneath my suit jacket. “Good. Thank you.”
The sound guy pulls the mic pack off my belt with a snap. And apparently he feels the need to reassure me more, because he lingers and adds: “I mean, my mom and all my aunts cream their pants whenever you come on screen. They love your whole nerdy gentleman thing.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
“That’s great,” I say weakly. “Very kind of them.”
I’m sorry I ever asked.
“Keep it up.” The sound guy punches my shoulder lightly, then slopes his way back toward the mic station. I watch him go, squinting against the bright lights.
It’s better once I step off the weather stage, moving back into the relative shadows of the main floor. Bright spots burn in my vision, fading slowly as I make my way to the snack table at the edge of the studio.
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes until I do all that again, with any updates that have happened in the meantime. But first: peppermint tea. And with any luck…
“Shelley,” I blurt.
She’s by the coffee machine, arms folded and foot tapping, glaring at her cup as it fills like that might scare it into going faster. Her curly red hair is tied back in a short ponytail, and her pink lips are pursed.
When she hears her name, Shelley looks up and beams, all the irritation melting clean off her beautiful face. This is one of the many things I love about Shelley: she gets frustrated with inanimate objects, but never people. With people, she’s a goddamn angel, always smiling and sweet.
“That went well,” she chirps, answering the question of whether she watched my segment this morning. Does she watch every time? Does she ever watch it on her TV at home? “Your powder held up just fine under the lights. Great forecast, too.”
“Hey, it’s good weather.” My hand trembles slightly as I reach for a clean mug. Probably leftover adrenaline from being live on air. Not the low level stress of standing next to the most beautiful woman alive. No, sir. “Everyone loves good weather. Can’t take the credit for a sunny day.”
Shelley hums and tops up her coffee with milk. “True. But at least you can’t be blamed for hurricanes either.”
I shrug.
“Oh, I don’t know. The studio gets some crazy letters sometimes. There’s one old fella out in the hills who is one hundred percent sure I’m a male witch, and that I keep summoning heat waves to dry out his veg patch.”
Shelley laughs. My pulse spikes as her green eyes narrow playfully on mine. “And are you, Dallas Adams? Are you a witch?”
A shiver of pleasure rolls down my spine when she says my full name. It’s like she’s claiming me out loud, or something. Or maybe she just likes the ring to it.
Either way, I forget to blink whenever I’m looking at Shelley. She’s the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen in my whole life—and I’ve seen a lot of sunsets.
I tap my nose. “Family secret.”
Shelley snorts then sips her coffee.
And I swear, if I ever had a chance with this girl… if I ever got to be alone with her, really alone, if I could tell her how I feel…
But no, no point thinking like that. An angel like Shelley would never fall for a nerdy weatherman—she probably likes tough guys who ride motorbikes and shoot tin cans off walls for fun, not men who pore over weather charts in their spare time.
Besides, we’re at work. The last thing I’d ever want to do is make Shelley uncomfortable.
So I should stop staring at her like she’s the oasis in my personal desert. Clearing my throat, I turn to the peppermint tea bags and top my mug up with steaming water.
Behind us, the studio is as hectic as ever—a maelstrom of organized chaos. I sure am glad that I’m not the one in charge, because it’s a non-stop cycle of news, weather, and interviews, with no chance to stop for breath. Already, I need to prep for my next turn on air.
“Can’t believe you do this all without coffee,” Shelley says, side-eyeing me as she sips from her mug again. As the hot liquid slides down her throat, she teases me with a long, loud, filthy moan.
My abs tense with arousal beneath my shirt. My whole body is on edge, rigid with want, because of that sound. That gosh darn sound. It’s going to play on a loop in my head for weeks.
I blink, dazed.
“I quit caffeine,” I mutter. “Gotta go.”
Turning on my heel, I slip back into the crowds and stride toward my desk by the far wall. Runners hurry past with cases of electrical equipment, and I pause as someone from wardrobe pushes a whole rack of white shirts across my path. My cheeks are hot, but at least I’m safely in the shadows.
Was that rude? Lord, I hope not, but I had to get out of there. That moan short-circuited my brain.
Besides, I could hardly tell Shelley the truth: that I quit caffeine the very first day I met her, but it hasn’t fully helped.
I’ve been on edge ever since.