Dallas looks at me quickly, then away.
His throat bobs again.
Exhaling, I beam out more brain waves.
You can say it. Whatever it is, you can tell me.
“I, uh. I watch bad horror movies,” he says at last. “Like B movies from the eighties, with bright red fake blood and men in onesies playing the monster.”
I snort, dusting his earlobe even though there’s no need. “Sounds like a virtue to me. Try again.”
Dallas nods, his shoulders squaring. This time when he looks at me, his gaze holds, blue and clear as the ocean.
“I buy lottery tickets sometimes.”
My heart glows.
“Don’t we all?”
“And sometimes… sometimes when I go to the gym, I don’t feel like working out, so I go straight to the sauna.”
“Sounds like healthy self care.” My brush moves over his chin, light and steady. “Keep going.”
Dallas sighs, his shoulders dropping. He blinks once, resigned.
“Sometimes,” he says, his molasses-rich voice going unusually raspy. “Sometimes I want people I shouldn’t. Well—just one person. One woman.”
My heart speeds up, pitter-pattering inside my chest. My grip is all sweaty around the make up brush, and my lips press together as I inhale through my nose.
Is this it? Is he talking about me?
Oh god, Dallas had better be talking about me. Otherwise I’ll cry out all the moisture from my body. I’ll be a husk.
“Go on,” I whisper, the brush gone still in my hand. The weatherman is perfectly powdered already, and there’s nothing keeping him here in my chair—nothing except this conversation that feels like life-or-death, and my own petite body standing between his spread thighs. Barring his exit.
“Headlines in ten!”
The floor manager’s bark makes me jump nearly out of my skin, and Dallas jolts too. He looks away, already tugging the collar protector from around his neck, the moment broken.
My stomach sinks. Was that it? Was that my chance?
Or was Dallas talking about another woman anyway?
Acid gurgles in my belly at the thought.
“I’d better get over there,” Dallas says. He waits for a long moment, then clears his throat pointedly when I stand there like an idiot, blocking his way. “Excuse me, Shelley.”
“Oh!” I jump even worse this time, then stumble back like I’ve been electrocuted. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”
Dallas unfolds into six feet something of chiseled marble, frowning at me with concern before looking at the giant clock on the wall that counts down until his next segment. He grimaces.
“Listen… if I made you uncomfortable, talking about vices like that…”
“Oh, pssh.” I wave a hand, my face flaming hot even as the rest of my body feels ice cold. “Vices, schmices. You should see me eat a whole tube of Pringles in one sitting.”
Dallas nods, still as serious as a funeral-goer. Then he turns and strides across the studio to the weather stage. He’s barely there in time for the cameras to start rolling, and all around me, the crew shoot me irritated glances for making the star weatherman late.
I sway on my feet, lightheaded with confusion and hope and misery. Was that confession about me or not?
