Chapter Fifteen
In the two weeks leading up to Mom’s wedding, which I’d reluctantly agreed to attend after not-so-subtle prodding from Leo and a barrage of pushy emails and nonstop texts from my parents (a motherfreakin’ ambush, if you ask me), I walked a tightrope between giving in to my growing connection with him and trying to keep it all from affecting the radio show.
Was it getting harder to rail against love when I was spending sun-filled Sunday mornings with Leo at the Lower East Side farmers’ market, taste-testing lemon-thyme infused honeys and locally sourced organic vegetables?
Maybe.
Was I struggling to deliver my typical rants of antiromance after spending the last two rainy weekends wandering through the Antiquities galleries at the Met hand in hand with Leo while quietly sharing earbuds for the museum’s audio tour?
Perhaps.
The truth was, Leo and I were starting to be everything I’d once mocked with fierce derision in segments like “Couples Who Brunch in Matching Outfits, and Other Things That Should Be Outlawed,” and now here I was, brunching, cooking, slow-dancing through the Greek and Roman wing like I hadn’t once called love, and I quote, “a farce that fell somewhere between a grand illusion and a cheesy marketing scam.”
But I was still damn good at my job, and while Love Is a Four-Letter Word maaaaay have dulled its claws just the tiniest bit, professionally speaking? I still felt razor sharp.
I shimmied myself from underneath the comforter and carefully nudged the blanket aside, trying to slip out of bed without waking Leo.
Dangling my legs off the edge, I stretched my arms overhead and reached for the small mound of jewelry on the nightstand.
But Leo, it seemed, had other plans. His arms wrapped around me with surprising speed for someone half asleep as he gently rolled and pulled me back into the fortress of sheets with a mischievous little growl.
“And where, might I ask, are you running off to?” he murmured, his accent thick, even thicker in his sleepy grumble.
I closed my eyes and breathed him in. Like his scent could convince me to toss aside my to-do list and stay. “I have that appearance on Good Day, Manhattan this afternoon, remember? And I was going to make it to SoulCycle before that.”
He waved a hand toward the window. “But it’s pouring outside. Stay in bed with me a little longer.” Scooting even closer, he draped an arm around my waist and pressed his smooth lips to my shoulder.
“It’s just drizzling,” I said, but didn’t move. Not a breath. Not even a muscle.
Pressing his face into the crook of my neck, his body was warm against my skin. “You can’t go. You’re sugar. You’ll melt.” He licked my earlobe and gave it a playful nibble as white-hot bolts of electricity jolted straight to my nether region.
“And you’re an absolute liability to my self-control.”
Though it took every fiber of my being not to roll over and pin him underneath me, smother him with kisses, and allow us to fall into something neither of us would want to stop, I really did have to get moving if I was going to make it to the gym and still have time for hair and makeup before I was live on air.
“Hmm . . . I could say the same, that you’re a liability too. In the very best way, of course.” His baby-blue eyes pierced straight through me, and I found it hard to breathe, let alone move. I had to leave. Now. Right now.
Get out of the effin’ bed, Elliot!
But instead, I stayed wrapped in his embrace, pretending the world didn’t exist outside this room. Pretending my career wasn’t on the line, my brand wasn’t slowly unraveling thread by thread. Pretending I wasn’t standing dead center in the very mess I always vehemently told my listeners to avoid.
But eventually, the inevitable won out, and I peeled myself from the cocoon of Leo’s arms and forced myself upright. “I gotta go,” I muttered, pulling on whatever jeans and hoodie were within reach.
“Don’t forget about tonight,” Leo called to me from inside the bedroom.
“Tonight? What’s tonight?” I yelled back.
He stepped into the living room, his pajama pants slung low on his waist, and leaned into the doorframe. “Our eight-month anniversary. I knew you’d forgotten.”
Apparently we were those people? The kind who celebrated month milestones?
“No way! I didn’t forget!” I said, pretending like I wasn’t secretly googling same-day-delivery anniversary gift ideas.
“Just be home by six.”
“Yes. Six. Anniversary date. Got it.”
Leo shook his head with a knowing smile, turned on his heel, and walked back toward the bedroom, his soft chuckle barely audible as he disappeared down the hall.
After a kick-ass Taylor Swift–themed spin class and a quick shower, I hurried into the studio entrance and was surprised to find Ravi waiting for me in the lobby.
He’d clearly been pacing, and as soon as I walked in, he took me by the crook of the elbow and hurried me in the direction of the greenroom.
“What . . . what are you doing here?” I asked, barely keeping up with his long stride.
I tried to feign excitement at seeing him, but confusion colored my delivery.
I honestly couldn’t even remember a time when Ravi had ever shown up at an appearance outside the station, not to mention addressed me in such an admonishing tone.
“I came to prep you for the segment since you didn’t respond to a single one of my messages all weekend.”
Oops.
“I was busy,” I clapped back.
“Oh, I know. Instagram kept me fully updated.”
Without even waiting for a response, he turned the knob of the greenroom, pushing it open, and I followed like a kid being led to the principal’s office.
“Listen, Ravi, I—”
The moment the door shut behind me, he whirled around, dark clouds in his stare.
“No, you listen. I tried to warn you. I trusted you to be able to handle it. And maybe it’s my fault for giving you more leeway than I should have these last few weeks.
But your edge is gone. Your rants are watered down.
Your punch lines? Flat. You’re hedging like you’re more concerned about your romance than our ratings.
Like your heart isn’t really in it anymore. ”
“That’s not fair. I’m not—”
“You are. And people have noticed. Sirius higher-ups have noticed. The advertisers have noticed. It seems everyone with ears has noticed but you!”
I crossed my arms, defensive but silent.
“You used to go for the jugular. Now it’s all .
. . vague sentiments and barely there snark.
You think you’re balancing it all, but you’re not.
You need to get your head on straight and deliver a grand slam this morning.
This segment is a huge opportunity for you to plug our show and your book and the brand, and I can’t have you all wishy-washy when this can really launch things in the right direction and get things back on course. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Okay, okay, I got it,” I grunted. As if on cue, a production assistant knocked to call me in for hair and makeup.
“Go,” Ravi said. “But remember what I said. Bark and bite. Don’t forget what’s at stake . . . for all of us.”
I nodded and followed the PA down the corridor. As the glam team filed in and started brushing, buffing, and curling, I tried to pretend like I wasn’t silently unraveling. I stared into the mirror, fire slowly replacing the shock.
Vague sentiments and barely there snark, my ass.
I was about to give Ravi so much snark he’d be drowning in it and begging for a life raft.
As the show’s third-hour guest, the spot usually reserved for local celebrities and fluff pieces, I’d be doing a segment they were calling “Romance, RIP?” where we were going to discuss the death of romance in the age of ghosting, swipe culture, and dating apps.
This was my wheelhouse. My domain. I’d show Ravi and the rest of my listening audience that I could tackle the death of romance with the same sharp humor and no-nonsense truth that had made me a staple on the airwaves.
And I did.
As soon as the show lights came up and I was introduced, I was in my element again. Game face on and taking no prisoners. Dripping with wit and oozing with bravado, I hit the show’s cohosts, Chelsea and Carson, with so much charisma they barely knew what to do with themselves.
I was on fire . . . that is, until the conversation veered away from my well-rehearsed anecdotes about other people’s unfortunate love lives to my own when Chelsea asked me a point-blank question about the most romantic thing a partner had ever done for me.
And like a deer in headlights, I completely froze up.
I barked out a laugh and tried to punt the conversation out of personal territory. “Define romantic. Are we counting grand gestures or just when he didn’t interrupt me midsentence?”
With a calculated flick of her stiff blond news-anchor helmet of hair, Chelsea said, “C’mon, Elliot.
Our viewers want to know. Your listeners want to know!
You’ve been in relationships, right? Dish, girl.
What’s the most romantic thing a partner’s ever done for you?
There has to be something. I find it hard to believe there hasn’t been at least one good apple in the bunch. ”
“I mean, romance is such a vague concept. Like, what even qualifies as romance? Who decides that?” I stalled.
Chelsea angled toward Carson. “I think romance is . . . is sacrifice, don’t you agree, Car? At its core, it’s someone putting someone else’s needs ahead of your own.” She shifted back in my direction. “Surely you’ve experienced that in your life with a significant other? You must’ve?”
They both looked at me expectantly, as if the answer should be obvious.
This was live TV, and unfortunately, I didn’t have time to deflect or talk my way out.
As if my blunder on the post–Valentine’s Day episode hadn’t taught me a thing about lying under pressure, I stepped right into it . . . again.