Page 11 of Geek in the Streets
Up close, Dallas doesn’t seem like a man who just decided that I’m a bad kisser and bounced. He doesn’t seem like the callous heart breaker I’ve built him up to be in my head over the last few hours. He seems freaking miserable.
“Six,” the floor manager says. “Five. Four.”
With one last troubled glance at me, Dallas turns and bounds up the steps to the weather stage, getting into position just as the red light flicks on and the cameras start rolling. Just like that, the tension melts from his broad shoulders, and that trademark dazzling smile comes out like the rising sun.
“This intermittent rain is here for the next few days, folks, so all those anxious gardeners out there can breathe a sigh of relief. Those yards will get a good, long drink over the weekend. Now, let’s talk temperatures. Over in the east…”
“You shouldn’t be here,” the floor manager mutters, quiet enough that no one else can hear. He’s not an unkind man, clearly uncomfortable to be delivering this message, but his tone is stern and he fixes me with an unwavering gaze. “You’ll put him off. You shouldn’t watch Dallas from this close, Shelley.”
Um. Since when do I put Dallas off?
I raise an eyebrow, jerking my head up at the stage. “He seems fine to me.” As flawless and godlike as ever, owning the camera with his suit and dimples.
The floor manager sighs. “Yeah, well you haven’t noticed Dallas moping over you for the last six months. He’s a crucial part of this program, you understand? If you break the weatherman’s heart and he loses his sparkle, our ratings will plummet. No one wants that. The bossesdefinitelydon’t want that.”
It occurs to me that I’m being politely threatened with being fired. All for hypothetically throwing Dallas Adams off his game.
Could I even do that? Do I really have that sort of power?
My shoulders firm, and I swear I grow two inches. Maybe I’m supposed to be cowed by this conversation, but if anything it makes me feel powerful. Chin raised, I stare up at the weatherman as he talks through the forecast, studying him in the light of this new information.
Six months, the floor manager just said. Dallas has wanted me for six months, which means this whole time, we’ve been pining after each other like two dummies. And he wants to throw that all away after a few clumsy kisses on my part?
Hell no. Not until I’ve said my piece, anyway.
I may be a makeup girl who loves puppies and cupcakes, but I’m also a fighter, damn it. And I’m not done with the city’s favorite weatherman just yet.
The floor manager clears his throat pointedly, and I nod and turn on my heel, walking back across the studio. But as I go, my plan starts to form.
Six
Dallas
My back aches as I walk across the parking lot after work, and my throat is dry from all that talking. A few hours ago, when I held Shelley in my arms, I felt bulletproof. Like sunshine flowed in my veins; like I’d live forever, with never a single bodily complaint again. Not even a cold or a paper cut.
Now I feel a thousand years old. My body is crumbling under the weight of my own stupidity.
The rain has eased off in the last few hours, but it’s still falling in a gentle mist. The scent of warm, wet stone fills the air, and the scraggly trees at the edge of the parking lot look perkier already.
Can’t believe I screwed things up so quickly. Can’t believe I lost my head like that, suddenly overcome with shame and panic, all because I don’t have tons of experience with women. What a mess.
Shelley is mad at me, of course. She’s been glaring daggers at me across the studio all afternoon, her green eyes sparking with defiance, her delicate shoulders set. And I don’t blame herfor a single second, because if you told me yesterday that I’d kiss Shelley breathless then leave her alone in a parking lot in the rain, I’d have laughed and called you insane.
Because who would ever do such a thing?
This guy.Fuck.
I looked for her after my last segment to apologize, but she was long gone. Her station already tidied, her make up supplies packed away. No sign of her curly red hair in the crowds milling across the studio floor. Like Shelley was always a figment of my imagination, some kind of fairy nymph, and I broke the spell of her presence by being such a jerk.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself, cutting down a row of shiny vehicles, all glossy and wet from the rain. Newly washed.
Overhead, the clouds look bruised.
My truck is parked near the end of the center row, down by the treeline. With my hands shoved in my pockets and my head ducked, satchel banging against my hip as I walk, I’m too lost in my own cranky world to notice the person leaning against the hood at first. Then when I finally look up, my heart stutters and my feet slam to a halt.
“Shelley?”
The make up girl has an open umbrella clutched in one hand, her knuckles white from gripping so hard. The other hand squeezes the handle of her backpack. So much tension thrums through her slender body.
