Page 46 of Weather Girl

Russell flicks on one set of overhead lights, casting the room in a soft, warm glow. “I do get seasick. I was sparing all of you.”

I flop down onto the couch between Russell’s and Shawn Bennett’s desks. “I can’t believe you guys get a couch. This is discrimination. Against people who don’t work in sports.”

Russell makes a low sound in his throat as he sits down at his computer, but he doesn’t make a move to open up any of his files.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll let you work. I’m just so amped right now.” I slap the couch’s armrest for emphasis. “I feel like I could lift a motherfucking truck.”

“It was pretty great, seeing them like that,” he says in this flat voice. All his giddiness from when we raced off the ramp—gone.

“It was a victory. They’re on a romantic cruise around Lake Washington right now with Captain Craig, and it’s because of us.” I can’t stop grinning. “We’re doing it. We’re really doing it.”

I’m rambling. But Russell is acting odd, and I’m not sure how to get back what we usually have, or if we still have a “usually” after the weekend. My hotel room. His sharp intake of breath when he unhooked my bra.

If I sleep with a hundred more people, I’m fairly certain it’ll remain the sexiest moment of my life.

“We’re lucky that Craig was so helpful,” I add.

It’s an obnoxious thing to say, I realize that. I’m following a hunch, testing whether this is the reason he’s upset. And it works.

“Right. Craig was so thrilled to help you.” The weight he places on the last word is slight, but I catch it.

I sit up straight, aiming my newfound frustration right between his shoulder blades. “Okay. Can you explain what’s going on?”

He spins in his seat, blue eyes flashing. “Really, Ari? Give me some credit.” I’ve never seen him this visibly riled. He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to calm himself down. When he speaks again, his voice is more level. “He asked you out right in front of me, and you couldn’t have been more eager to say yes.”

“What does it matter that it was right in front of you?” I say. “And so what if I was eager? I’m single.”

If he’s jealous, he’s going to have to spell it out for me. If he feels for me any fraction of the way I do for him, I don’t want to keep wondering.

“Because he was all... I don’t know. Chiseled. Fit. Like a Ken doll. And I thought if that was your type...” He trails off, scraping his hand along his stubbled jaw in a way I wish weren’t impossibly sexy.

The way he’s sitting there, with his glasses and his scruff and his jacket with the elbow patches—the idea of him not being my type is about as ridiculous as saying I don’t really care about clouds.

“If that was my type...?” I prompt, as gently as I can.

“It’s not important. I don’t want to be the jealous asshole here.”

“Why would you be jealous of Captain Craig?”

At that, he rises from his chair, sending it spiraling back against his desk with a muted thwack. “Because I find you so incredibly charming! I have for a while, and you saying yes to this guy you just met when you were standing right in front of me made me jealous. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. I’m extremely out of practice, and nothing could make that clearer than what happened tonight. And I wanted Torrance and Seth to have a great night, I did—but that’s why I’m not all gung ho about what happened out there.”

The look in his eyes has grown so intense, unblinking as he waits for my next move, and all I can focus on is the quick rise and fall of his chest. In and out and in and out. There might not be enough air in this room.

We’ve always been so cordial to each other, and now that we’re this-close to confessing how we feel, the claws are coming out.

On shaking legs, I push to my feet. “Russell,” I say. “Russ.” I try out the nickname, loving the way his face softens when I say it. “He’s not my type.”

“No?” There’s a glimmer of hope in his voice.

I shake my head as I inch closer, stretching out my right hand to graze his arm. He wants this as much as I do, and that makes me brave. Now my breathing is as labored as his, anticipation filling my lungs until I think I might collapse before I reach him.

Luckily, he’s there to hold me up, his mouth meeting mine right as his hands grasp my hips.

It’s a hard, fast kiss, and I open for him right away. This is Russell, who took me to my first hockey game and waited with me in the hospital and undressed me without looking. Sweet, ever-polite Russell, losing all pretense of pleasant as he catches my lower lip with his teeth while his hands dive into my hair. I thought he’d be shy, reserved, but there’s a desperation even in the way his thumb sweeps along my ear. The scrape of stubble against my chin and cheeks.

And I can’t get enough.

A rumble in his throat makes me kiss him deeper, grabbing the lapel of his jacket tighter with my good hand. Now I’m certain there isn’t enough air in here, but I can’t bring myself to care. All I want is for him to make that sound again and again.

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