Page 1 of Geek in the Streets
One
Shelley
It’s five AM on a Friday morning, but the TV news studio is already packed full and bustling. Most folks in the city are snoozing in their beds, tucked up and dreaming of their weekend plans, but not here. Not us. We’ve got a job to do.
Bright lights shine on the news desks, where the anchors shuffle their papers and chat in their stiff, colorful suits. I already dusted both their faces with powder and gave them a quick touch-up with my make-up kit. They’re ready to go live on air, just as soon as the sound guy is done messing with their mics.
Over by the cameras, the floor manager pages through a clipboard and looks stressed, talking a mile a minute to a nodding cameraman and a few other crew. They’re all leaning in to hear better over the hubbub, and all stifling yawns when the floor manager’s not looking. Same as every morning.
It’s hectic. Bright and loud, with people hurrying left and right. So many distractions all around… but as I gently shoo thelatest powdered face out of my make-up chair, I only have eyes for one man.
Dallas Adams.
Weather man and hottie extraordinaire.
He’s over by the coffee station at the edge of the room, dunking a peppermint tea bag into a mug of hot water and smiling awkwardly at Brenda the runner as she chats to him, waving an arm around for emphasis. How do I know his tea is peppermint from all the way over here? Because when Dallas Adams sits in my chair each morning, he always has fresh, minty breath. Makes me want to lean in closer and inhale the air straight from his lungs.
“Headlines in twenty,” the floor manager calls, his voice booming through the studio. I jump, sprinkling face powder on my tight black t-shirt.
“Shoot.”
Chin ducked, I smack at the pale smear of powder on my stomach, before sighing and setting my make-up brush to one side on the table. Need to swap it out for a fresh one anyway. Shouldn’t have gotten lost there for a moment, staring at Dallas Adams like a love-struck schoolgirl.
You’d think after six months of crushing like this, I’d be used to having the sexy weatherman nearby. But nope. I’m still as jittery and hopeless as day one on the job.
“Hey, Shelley.”
My lips press together at the familiar voice—low and molasses-rich. That voice is how Dallas Adams got famous first of all as a radio weatherman, before the city media realized that his face was even more charming, and that we were all being robbed not having him on screen.
All my insides clench with longing as I spin to face the man settling into my chair. By the time I turn around, all the panic has wiped off my face.
“Hi, Dallas.”
Play it cool, play it cool.
Because Dallas Adams is tall—so tall that even with him sitting down, I’m only a little above his eye level. He’s broad, too, with sculpted shoulders that press against his suit jacket and fill my chair in a way that makes my knees go all wobbly. Throw in that thick, dark hair and those Clark Kent glasses?
Forget about it.
“Got something on you, there.” Dallas’s hand lifts for a moment, like he might actually touch my stomach—and for a split second, I go completely still. Breath held, hoping. My body warms in anticipation for his touch.
Then his hand drops back down into his lap, and I exhale shakily. The studio feels hotter than a minute ago.
But of course the city’s favorite weatherman is not gonna paw at my stomach in the workplace. Dallas is agentleman, filled with genuine Southern charm, and he’s always very careful to behave respectfully.
I love that about him. Even if sometimes, I really wish he’d tear up the HR guidelines and tug me down to sit on his lap. Or better yet, sling me over his shoulder and carry me off to the nearest supply closet, then have his wicked way with me.
Yeah. That would do it.
“So.” I clear my throat, all flustered. “Have we got some good weather coming in today?”
Dallas looks up as I brush powder over the handsome planes of his face, his blue eyes steady on mine. They crinkle at the corners as he smiles.
“Spoilers,” he teases, the same as when I ask every morning. My heart pangs in my chest, because there’s something so freaking intimate about sharing an in-joke with a person. It’s almost enough to give a girl hope.
“Oh, you. Quit holding out on me.” I tsk and shake my head, brushing powder over Dallas’s chin. He smiles even wider when I boop him on the tip of his nose with my brush.
And… am I crazy? Does this guy like me back?
