Weather Girl(49)

“I can do that.” I pretend to give Seas the Day a longing glance. “I’m so sorry. We were really looking forward to this.”

“Well—” Torrance breaks off, glancing between Seth and the two of us. “We should still go, right, Seth? It would be a shame to waste it . . .”

She wants to spend time with him.

Or she wants a free boat ride and dinner, but still, they’re going to be on that yacht for three whole hours. Either they’ll emerge with a newfound affection for each other or one of them will toss the other overboard.

“I’m game if you are,” Seth says. I can tell he’s trying to sound as though he has a tremendous amount of chill about this alone time with Torrance when he probably has about zero. “Thanks again, you two. It’s too bad you won’t be able to enjoy it.”

I wave my hand. “Don’t mention it. Have a great night.”

I link my right arm through Russell’s, and he lets out another moan for good measure. Once my back is turned, I can’t help it—I start laughing, and Russell’s shoulders start shaking, and we rush off the ramp as quickly as possible.

“Oh my god,” I hear Torrance say. “Remember this? It’s the same bottle of wine from our first date.”

When we’re safely back on land, Russell meets my gaze, moonlight glinting off his glasses, and I know we’re thinking the same thing:

It’s working.





16




FORECAST:

An inevitable collision of two high-pressure systems; beware falling objects

A NEWSROOM NEVER really sleeps. While I’m used to getting to the station when it’s still dark out, nine o’clock is a different kind of dark. Almost eerie.

Russell had some coverage to wrap up for the website, and since he’s the one driving, I wasn’t about to complain. Sure, I could have taken an Uber home, but I must have been a matchmaker—or more specifically, a shadchan—in a previous life, because imagining Torrance and Seth on that yacht together has filled me with too much adrenaline. I’m not ready for the night to end.

“You really sold the seasick thing,” I say as we head into the empty Dugout. “You looked truly miserable.”

Russell flicks on one set of overhead lights, casting the room in a soft, warm glow. “I do get seasick. I was sparing all of you.”

I flop down onto the couch between Russell’s and Shawn Bennett’s desks. “I can’t believe you guys get a couch. This is discrimination. Against people who don’t work in sports.”

Russell makes a low sound in his throat as he sits down at his computer, but he doesn’t make a move to open up any of his files.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll let you work. I’m just so amped right now.” I slap the couch’s armrest for emphasis. “I feel like I could lift a motherfucking truck.”

“It was pretty great, seeing them like that,” he says in this flat voice. All his giddiness from when we raced off the ramp—gone.

“It was a victory. They’re on a romantic cruise around Lake Washington right now with Captain Craig, and it’s because of us.” I can’t stop grinning. “We’re doing it. We’re really doing it.”

I’m rambling. But Russell is acting odd, and I’m not sure how to get back what we usually have, or if we still have a “usually” after the weekend. My hotel room. His sharp intake of breath when he unhooked my bra.

If I sleep with a hundred more people, I’m fairly certain it’ll remain the sexiest moment of my life.

“We’re lucky that Craig was so helpful,” I add.

It’s an obnoxious thing to say, I realize that. I’m following a hunch, testing whether this is the reason he’s upset. And it works.

“Right. Craig was so thrilled to help you.” The weight he places on the last word is slight, but I catch it.

I sit up straight, aiming my newfound frustration right between his shoulder blades. “Okay. Can you explain what’s going on?”

He spins in his seat, blue eyes flashing. “Really, Ari? Give me some credit.” I’ve never seen him this visibly riled. He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to calm himself down. When he speaks again, his voice is more level. “He asked you out right in front of me, and you couldn’t have been more eager to say yes.”

“What does it matter that it was right in front of you?” I say. “And so what if I was eager? I’m single.”

If he’s jealous, he’s going to have to spell it out for me. If he feels for me any fraction of the way I do for him, I don’t want to keep wondering.

“Because he was all . . . I don’t know. Chiseled. Fit. Like a Ken doll. And I thought if that was your type . . .” He trails off, scraping his hand along his stubbled jaw in a way I wish weren’t impossibly sexy.

The way he’s sitting there, with his glasses and his scruff and his jacket with the elbow patches—the idea of him not being my type is about as ridiculous as saying I don’t really care about clouds.

“If that was my type . . . ?” I prompt, as gently as I can.

“It’s not important. I don’t want to be the jealous asshole here.”

“Why would you be jealous of Captain Craig?”