“How did you know it was me? Do I smell?” He sniffs the collar of his perfectly pressed white shirt. I bat his hand away then tuck the paper protector around his neck.
“Of course you don’t. But maybe I’m the witch,” I tease.
As I work, my fingertips graze the smooth skin of Dallas’s neck, and I suppress a pleased shiver. He’s got that raspy, just-shaved thing going on. Makes me want to lick from his collarbone to his jaw.
“Stormy day today,” Dallas notes, glancing around the room. “Inside and out.”
“Sure is.”
But unlike the big egos and short tempers that tend to star on screen, Dallas is never rude or impatient with the crew. He’s always a perfect gentleman, even on a day like today when everyone’s manners are fraying.
God, I love him. What would he do if I leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek? Would he cringe back and call security?
Or would helikeit? Would he stand up, sweep me into his arms, and kiss me back?
“Feels good hiding out in this chair, I’ve gotta tell you.” Dallas sinks down against the leather as I work, dusting powder over the bridge of his nose. Those broad shoulders relax beneath his suit jacket—forest green today.
“I’m glad to hear it. Brenda was just here hiding too.”
“I don’t blame her.” Dallas gives a lopsided smile, all dimples and charm. “Obviously, I don’t personally care about the coffee machine, but some of the crew look ready to riot. All over two percent milk.”
I laugh, stepping a fraction closer. The warmth of his body seeps into my front, and his thighs spread to let me near. Like Dallas loves this too. Like we’re drawn to each other.
“Us mere mortals go crazy over caffeine,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t?”
“Nope. As far as I can tell, you don’t have a single vice, Dallas Adams.”
His smile fades a little, and his gaze turns serious behind his glasses. He watches me closely, like he’s willing me to understand his next words.
“Oh, I have a few of those, Shelley.”
“Vices?”
“Yes.”
“Such as?”
It’s so hard to imagine. The city’s favorite weatherman is boyishly handsome, with impeccable manners. He’s smarter than most of this room put together, and he’s freakishly disciplined when it comes to clean eating. I’ve never even seen Dallas Adams with a pastry from the snack table in his hand. Guess that’s how he got so sculpted under those suits.
Point is, I can’t picture it. What would Dallas’s vice even be? Saving too responsibly for his retirement fund? Helping too many old ladies cross the road?
The weatherman swallows, his throat bobbing. He’s still watching me, gaze unsure.
“Such as…”
I raise my eyebrows, urging him to go on. Because now that Dallas has hinted at these secret, shadowy depths, I’m more intrigued about him than ever. If he doesn’t give me some clues, I’m going to lay awake tonight wondering.
“Go on,” I say.
“Ice cream,” Dallas blurts, a faint blush spreading over his cheekbones. “I’m a devil for chocolate fudge brownie ice cream.”
He glances away, visibly annoyed. Like he just chickened out of hisrealconfession.
Well, I’m not the TV studio’s unofficial therapist for nothing, so I hum and brush powder gently over Dallas’s forehead. Maybe he just needs some encouragement.
“What else?” I murmur.
