Or is he this charming and polite with everyone? Is he still as oblivious to my weak attempts at flirting as he was in my first week at work?
Or even worse… does he know full well that I’m twisted up in knots over him? Does he secretly hope that I’ll get the hint and move on eventually?
Am I humiliating myself by blushing and fussing over him, always so desperate each day for Dallas Adams to sit in my chair?
So many questions, running on an endless loop in my brain.
“Fifteen minutes,” the floor runner calls, voice booming.
I bite my lip, still brushing carefully over Dallas’s forehead. I’ve gone over it twice now already, powdering the weatherman flawlessly, but I still can’t bring myself to step back from the chair. I like ithere,standing between his spread thighs, feeling the heat of his body waft against my front. Breathing in the peppermint scent of his breath. Feeling my heart lunge against my rib cage, like it might headbutt its way right out to him and plop into his waiting hands.
“I always like this.” Serious blue eyes meet mine, then dart away. “Sitting in this chair. Getting… getting powdered, or whatever, even though I never wear make-up at home. Is that weird, Shelley?”
I hum and tilt my head, tracing a line down the weatherman’s cheekbone with my brush. As long as there is powder on that thing, I have an excuse to touch this perfect specimen of a man. To stroke and cherish him.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Like, I really love it when they wash my hair at the salon. It’s nice to be pampered. And I bet mostmen don’t get fussed over nearly so much as women do. Not in that way, anyways.”
Dallas huffs out a laugh. “No, it doesn’t happen often. Just here.”
Well, I’m happy to fuss over the city’s sweetheart. Hell, I’d do a lot more thanthisfor him if I ever got the chance, but of course I can’t tell him that. Can’t say those words out loud. Can only bite my lip and hope that Dallas can read brain waves as well as cloud patterns.
I love you. I love you. I love you, Dallas Adams.
I beam it out into the studio air, just in case. It’s been six months of pining for this man, of screaming that fact out loud in my head, and it hasn’t worked yet… but you never know. If I’ve learned anything from watching Dallas present the weather every morning, it’s that conditions can change on a dime.
“Well.” Dallas braces both hands on his thighs, watching a runner jog past with a clipboard. “Guess I’d better get over there.”
“Sure.” I force myself to step back, my stomach churning in protest. “Here’s hoping for another sunny day.”
Dallas winks as he stands, handing me the crinkly collar protector I spread over his shoulders. “I’ll see what I can do.”
And as the weatherman walks away, ready to dazzle the cameras and the viewers at home, I watch him go with a dry mouth and a sinking heart.
Sometimes, in a busy, bright TV studio, it’s still possible to feel lonely.
Two
Dallas
“Another nice, sunny day for the Little League, but everyone be sure to pack sunscreen because UV levels are high. After three PM, an easterly wind will sweep through and make for a blustery day, so hold on to those hats.”
My mouth rattles off the weather report for the day as I stand in front of the green screen which will become a map of the area. The studio lights are hot and dazzling, and a bead of sweat runs down my spine beneath my royal blue suit. A red light shines in my direction, letting me know the cameras are rolling and I’m live on air.
“There’ll be scattered showers around five PM in the west, clearing up for another dry night.”
Is Shelley watching me right now? I can never tell with all these lights dazzling me—I can only hope, then feel like a tool for wanting my crush to watch me at work.
“Temperatures are projected to fall fast overnight, so to all those summer campers out there, pack plenty of warm layers.”
I mean, it’s not like presenting the weather is such a turn on anyway. Right? I’m standing here with a powdered face and a garish suit that looks better on camera, sweating beneath my clothes and fighting the urge to itch my neck. Giving cheesy advice to the city’s residents about their summer plans. Maybe it’s better if Shelleydoesn’twatch this.
Not that I’m ashamed of my work or anything. Ever since I was a little boy and I first watched the Twister movie with my dad, I’ve always been obsessed with the weather. Getting to work as a weatherman each day is a dream come true.
But maybe I don’t want Shelley to see me as the cheeseball presenter that everyone else sees. Maybe I want her to see me as a—as aman.
The red light blinks off, showing that I’m not live on air anymore, and I scoff to myself and tug at my shirt collar. People bustle all around, rushing to set up the next segment after the anchors are done. The sound guy comes over and starts unfastening the mic from my lapel.
“Was that alright?” I find myself asking, still thinking about a certain makeup girl. Was she watching? What does she think of me?
