3. ey
Three
Shelley
T wo weeks later, we’re having a bad day in the studio.
Everything that could possibly go wrong has happened already today: we’ve had spilled coffees; torn clothes; a power surge that frazzled an expensive camera.
The lead anchor is half drunk before noon and not hiding it well, and even the pastries on the snack table have gone stale.
It’s always hectic at work, but today everyone’s snappy and extra stressed. The floor manager keeps tugging on what’s left of his hair, storming left and right with his clipboard, while Brenda the runner has shut down the coffee machine until people stop bitching at her about two percent milk.
It’s carnage.
Days like this make me glad that my job is relatively calm.
My station is set to one side, away from the worst of the chaos, and doing people’s make up is easy once they quit wriggling.
If anything, folks come and plop down in my chair to get a moment’s peace, even if their powder is holding up fine between segments.
I dust ‘em all. Let them sigh and sit in silence, or chat about their day if they prefer a nice conversation. I’m the make-up girl, sure, but I’m also this TV studio’s unofficial therapist. Even Brenda swings by, despite the fact that she’s not on screen and doesn’t need powder.
“It’s just, like, whatever. It’s just coffee. Get over it. You know?”
“Sure.”
Brenda tilts her head back, eyes screwed shut, as I gently comb her dark hair.
She’s a few years older than me, but she reminds me of this cranky cat that my mom used to have.
Mr Butterfinger. He used to huff and puff and march around like the big boss of the house, but what he secretly wanted was a tickle behind the ears.
“I wouldn’t cut off their supply if they weren’t being such freaking babies about two percent milk.”
The comb hits a small tangle, and I frown slightly as I tease it apart. The last thing I want to do to our frazzled runner is yank on her hair.
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“And, you know, I sent Jamie for more milk cartons forty minutes ago. Is it my fault that they hired a headless chicken for an intern?”
“Nope. It is not.”
The tangle comes loose, and I keep combing with a smile. Brenda’s got gorgeous hair, thick and dark and long, though she mostly wears it scraped back in a high ponytail.
After another minute, the runner sighs and cracks one eye open, watching me from the chair.
“Shouldn’t you be doing someone’s actual make up?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” Brenda gusts out a long-suffering sigh and pushes to her feet, but bumps me with her hip as she goes past. “Thanks, Shelley.”
“Any time.”
I’m still grinning when another person settles into the chair behind me, the leather creaking audibly over the din of the studio.
My body knows what’s up before my brain realizes. It’s always the same when he’s near: my heart pumps faster, my skin warms, and my nerve endings go all tingly. Dying for his touch.
“Hey, Dallas.”
The weatherman looks startled when I turn to face him, all wide-eyed behind his thick framed glasses.
“How did you know it was me? Do I smell?” He sniffs the collar of his perfectly pressed white shirt. I bat his hand away then tuck the paper protector around his neck.
“Of course you don’t. But maybe I’m the witch,” I tease.
As I work, my fingertips graze the smooth skin of Dallas’s neck, and I suppress a pleased shiver. He’s got that raspy, just-shaved thing going on. Makes me want to lick from his collarbone to his jaw.
“Stormy day today,” Dallas notes, glancing around the room. “Inside and out.”
“Sure is.”
But unlike the big egos and short tempers that tend to star on screen, Dallas is never rude or impatient with the crew. He’s always a perfect gentleman, even on a day like today when everyone’s manners are fraying.
God, I love him. What would he do if I leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek? Would he cringe back and call security?
Or would he like it? Would he stand up, sweep me into his arms, and kiss me back?
“Feels good hiding out in this chair, I’ve gotta tell you.” Dallas sinks down against the leather as I work, dusting powder over the bridge of his nose. Those broad shoulders relax beneath his suit jacket—forest green today.
“I’m glad to hear it. Brenda was just here hiding too.”
“I don’t blame her.” Dallas gives a lopsided smile, all dimples and charm. “Obviously, I don’t personally care about the coffee machine, but some of the crew look ready to riot. All over two percent milk.”
I laugh, stepping a fraction closer. The warmth of his body seeps into my front, and his thighs spread to let me near. Like Dallas loves this too. Like we’re drawn to each other.
“Us mere mortals go crazy over caffeine,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t?”
“Nope. As far as I can tell, you don’t have a single vice, Dallas Adams.”
His smile fades a little, and his gaze turns serious behind his glasses. He watches me closely, like he’s willing me to understand his next words.
“Oh, I have a few of those, Shelley.”
“Vices?”
“Yes.”
“Such as?”
It’s so hard to imagine. The city’s favorite weatherman is boyishly handsome, with impeccable manners.
He’s smarter than most of this room put together, and he’s freakishly disciplined when it comes to clean eating.
I’ve never even seen Dallas Adams with a pastry from the snack table in his hand.
Guess that’s how he got so sculpted under those suits.
Point is, I can’t picture it. What would Dallas’s vice even be? Saving too responsibly for his retirement fund? Helping too many old ladies cross the road?
The weatherman swallows, his throat bobbing. He’s still watching me, gaze unsure.
“Such as…”
I raise my eyebrows, urging him to go on. Because now that Dallas has hinted at these secret, shadowy depths, I’m more intrigued about him than ever. If he doesn’t give me some clues, I’m going to lay awake tonight wondering.
“Go on,” I say.
“Ice cream,” Dallas blurts, a faint blush spreading over his cheekbones. “I’m a devil for chocolate fudge brownie ice cream.”
He glances away, visibly annoyed. Like he just chickened out of his real confession.
Well, I’m not the TV studio’s unofficial therapist for nothing, so I hum and brush powder gently over Dallas’s forehead. Maybe he just needs some encouragement.
“What else?” I murmur.
Dallas looks at me quickly, then away.
His throat bobs again.
Exhaling, I beam out more brain waves.
You can say it. Whatever it is, you can tell me.
“I, uh. I watch bad horror movies,” he says at last. “Like B movies from the eighties, with bright red fake blood and men in onesies playing the monster.”
I snort, dusting his earlobe even though there’s no need. “Sounds like a virtue to me. Try again.”
Dallas nods, his shoulders squaring. This time when he looks at me, his gaze holds, blue and clear as the ocean.
“I buy lottery tickets sometimes.”
My heart glows.
“Don’t we all?”
“And sometimes… sometimes when I go to the gym, I don’t feel like working out, so I go straight to the sauna.”
“Sounds like healthy self care.” My brush moves over his chin, light and steady. “Keep going.”
Dallas sighs, his shoulders dropping. He blinks once, resigned.
“Sometimes,” he says, his molasses-rich voice going unusually raspy. “Sometimes I want people I shouldn’t. Well—just one person. One woman.”
My heart speeds up, pitter-pattering inside my chest. My grip is all sweaty around the make up brush, and my lips press together as I inhale through my nose.
Is this it? Is he talking about me?
Oh god, Dallas had better be talking about me. Otherwise I’ll cry out all the moisture from my body. I’ll be a husk.
“Go on,” I whisper, the brush gone still in my hand. The weatherman is perfectly powdered already, and there’s nothing keeping him here in my chair—nothing except this conversation that feels like life-or-death, and my own petite body standing between his spread thighs. Barring his exit.
“Headlines in ten!”
The floor manager’s bark makes me jump nearly out of my skin, and Dallas jolts too. He looks away, already tugging the collar protector from around his neck, the moment broken.
My stomach sinks. Was that it? Was that my chance?
Or was Dallas talking about another woman anyway?
Acid gurgles in my belly at the thought.
“I’d better get over there,” Dallas says. He waits for a long moment, then clears his throat pointedly when I stand there like an idiot, blocking his way. “Excuse me, Shelley.”
“Oh!” I jump even worse this time, then stumble back like I’ve been electrocuted. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”
Dallas unfolds into six feet something of chiseled marble, frowning at me with concern before looking at the giant clock on the wall that counts down until his next segment. He grimaces.
“Listen… if I made you uncomfortable, talking about vices like that…”
“Oh, pssh.” I wave a hand, my face flaming hot even as the rest of my body feels ice cold. “Vices, schmices. You should see me eat a whole tube of Pringles in one sitting.”
Dallas nods, still as serious as a funeral-goer. Then he turns and strides across the studio to the weather stage. He’s barely there in time for the cameras to start rolling, and all around me, the crew shoot me irritated glances for making the star weatherman late.
I sway on my feet, lightheaded with confusion and hope and misery. Was that confession about me or not?
As Dallas starts talking about summer storms in that rich, low voice, my make up brush clatters to the table and I turn to march toward the exit. Need open skies. Need fresh air.
Need a chance to replay the last ten minutes in my head over and over, trying to figure out what the hell any of it meant.