Page 7 of Dear Hattie

Would it be bad if I slept with my mom’s ex-boyfriend? You have three days to write back, or I’m doin’ it.

Daddy Issues

Five

Harriet

As soon as the red recording light flicks off, I slip through the podcast studio door.

It’s late on Tuesday evening, and most of the Pretzel Media building has emptied out for the day. Pipes gurgle in the walls, and the footsteps of late workers echo up to the metal rafters. A few determined stragglers hunch over their laptops, lost in the glow of their screens, but the water coolers are ghostly and silent in the moonlight.

I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t chase after Wesley Tanaka, so shamelessly needy for his attention. Shouldn’t let him glimpse how lonely I am with my best friend gone. Should go home, cook dinner, and numb myself with another TV crime drama.

And yet…

When I slip inside the recording studio, the door shutting softly behind me, and catch my first glimpse of Wesley in days… I gust out a sigh of relief. Tension bleeds from my muscles, and my stomach unknots.

It’s nuts reacting to him like this—I realize that. I’d write to my own column for advice if I could.

And I know exactly what I’d say in reply:Sounds like you’re crushing hard on this ‘nemesis’. Are you sure you hate him after all?

Pfft. Shut up, me.

The recording booth is quiet and warm, heated by banks of glowing electronics. The walls are padded to muffle the noise from outside, and it’s dim in here, lit only by a single table lamp and Wesley’s controls.

A pane of glass separates his domain from the microphones clustered around a table. The chairs in there are thrown back, left in disarray by whoever just finished recording. They left their papers too, and a used coffee cup. Their table is lit by a beam of light from above, like a set in a play.

“Hmm.” Wesley hums and mutters to himself as he works, headphones blocking out all sound. His chair creaks as he swivels to grab a pen, jotting something on a notepad. Shoulder blades shift beneath his forest green t-shirt, and his black hair is rumpled beneath the headphones.

I hang back, mouth dry, and press my back against the wall. This is full-on creep behavior, but I can’t help it. Ineverget to observe Wesley like this, looking my fill. I’m usually too busy rolling my eyes and fighting off a blush.

Not tonight. Tonight, the blush spreads over my cheeks uncontested, and I stare and stare. Is it weird to find the back of a man’s neck attractive? His skin looks so smooth, and his bone structure is a work of art. Want to trace his whole body with my fingertip.

Shit! No.

That’s—that’s not really how I feel. It’s the sleep-deprivation talking; the loneliness since Simone left. It’s because I’m burned out from writing too many Dear Hattie columns, day in, day out, and I’m—I’m hungry. My blood sugar is low.

Besides, Wesley Tanaka is a well known snack. I’m only human, okay?

“Shit,” Wesley mutters, tossing the pen on his desk. He leans back with a long, deep,animalgroan, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. My face simmers.

Pressed against the wall behind him, I bite my lip. Thatgroan.It reverberated through me somehow, tingling all the way down to my bones. My tummy feels all squirmy. Does he make other noises like that?

A bunch of screens face his chair, each covered with some kind of editing software. All buttons and sliders and spiky lines. Looks like rocket science to me—and deadly boring.

Does Wesley ever get tired of this stuff? Does he ever crave a distraction?

Icould distract him. That’s what nemeses are for, right?

Lips pressed together, I push off the wall and tiptoe forward. The recording booth isn’t huge—only a few steps from wall to desk—but as I get closer, the little hairs stand up on my arms. I shiver inside my blue silk t-shirt.

Wesley’s sobig.I forget that sometimes. He’s six-foot-something of muscle and bone, dressed in soft cotton shirts and dark pants.

He stares at the screens, tapping a pen against his front teeth. Sounds buzz from his headphones, too quiet for me to make out the words. This close, I can smell him: fresh air after a storm; a wet forest; the zing of electricity. Wesley Tanaka smells like a weather event.

As I lean down behind him, my lips an inch from his earlobe, my pulse taps madly in my throat. He’s sowarm,heating the air around him.

“Boo,” I say.

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