Page 12 of Geek in the Streets
“Dallas,” she says, voice crisp.
“Uh.” I glance around helplessly, but there are no clues for how to proceed around me. No handy billboard which reads,Tell her about tomorrow’s weather! Women love that!“Do you… do you need a ride home?”
I’ve noticed before that Shelley catches the bus to work, but maybe she doesn’t want to wait at the bus stop in the rain. So maybe this is a weird, grumpy olive branch she’s offeringme, a chance to atone for my dreadful manners. That would be wonderful.
But Shelley snorts. “No. No, Dallas, I do not need a ride home. I need an explanation.”
Shoot.
That’s what I was afraid of.
“Are you sure?” I joke weakly, tipping my face up to the mizzling rain. Suddenly I desperately need to cool down, cooking beneath my suit. “Because a ride, I can definitely do.”
Shelley exhales, and for a moment I think she’s really going to yell. That I’ve truly pushed the sweetest woman alive too far, all with my bumbling ineptitude. But then she tilts her head andlooksat me, evaluating with those moss green eyes, and her gaze is not filled with irritation or reproach. It’s pure empathy.
My neck itches. What is happening?
“I have a theory,” Shelley says, finally letting go of the stranglehold on her backpack to push a damp lock of hair from her eyes. Even with the umbrella, the rain is fine enough to gust sideways into her shelter. “And you’re a man of science, aren’t you, Dallas?”
“Meteorology and Geosciences,” I agree automatically. “With a special research interest in changing climate patterns as a result of the warming surface temperatures of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Uh-huh.” Shelley’s mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smile. My cracked chest glows warm with sudden hope. Is this… is this not wholly broken, then? Can I make things up to her? “Well then, perhaps you’d like to help test my theory.”
I’m already nodding. Anything for Shelley. Anything in the world. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued.
“How?” I ask.
“Drive me somewhere private,” Shelley says. “Realprivate.”
Oh, god. Arousal slams into my lower belly like a freight train, but somehow I keep standing upright and fish out my keys. It might not bethatkind of theory.
“Hop in, then. We’re not driving anywhere until you’re safely seated and buckled.”
“Yes, sir.” Shelley gives a fake little salute and sidles around the truck, turning just in time to miss the flood of heat to my cheeks.
Sir?
I… didn’t mind that. I didn’t mind that at all.
God, I hope it’s that kind of theory.
“What are all the gadgets in the back?” Shelley asks half a mile later as we drive away from the studio, further out of the city. Toward the back roads and dusty canyons. Clumps of trees whip past on either side, and specks of rain fly in through the open truck windows. Neither of us care—it’s worth it for the fresh air.
“They’re for taking measurements. Stuff to do with climate patterns and the weather.”
Shelley whistles, craning around to peer through the rear window at the mounds of boxed up gear lashed beneath a tarp. “You must really trust your neighbors. I bet that stuff’s expensive.”
I laugh. “Yes and no. It’s specialized, sure, but it’s all ancient and second hand. More for my own use as a hobby. For my work, I use the studio’s equipment. It’s more accurate, more up to date, and if it gets damaged, someone else foots the bill.”
“But you prefer the older kit,” Shelley notes, reading between the lines.
I shrug, both hands sensibly at ten and two on the wheel. The wind blows into the truck and flaps my shirt against my chest, my suit jacket abandoned on the back seat and my sleeves rolled. “Yeah, I guess so. Feels more romantic somehow. Nostalgic.”
“From when you were younger?”
I laugh, because some of that kit iswayolder than me. “More like from when my dad was younger. Half of that kit was his. We used to take it out together on the weekends, trying to make sense of the crazy weather around here. This region is a real hotch-potch, sandwiched between the lakes and the mountains like this, with snowy winters and that stretch of arid desert.”
Shelley is quiet for a moment, but I canfeelher gaze on me. It’s like the tip of a finger running down the side of my neck, light and teasing.
