The Ex Talk(26)

“I don’t know, I really like ‘wha-zoom.’”

I hurl the ball at him as hard as I can, and he somehow catches it. I fold my legs up onto my chair, having kicked off my boots a while ago. I have tights on underneath my skirt, so hopefully I’m not too indecent, sitting like this.

A bit of scruff has grown in along his jaw—an eleven-o’clock shadow—and I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my hand over it. If it would be rough like sandpaper. He’s usually so clean-shaven. I can’t decide which look I like best, and sure, while it’s concerning to mentally debate whether Dominic is more attractive with stubble or without, there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that he’s an aesthetically pleasing human being.

I am perfectly capable of having a fake relationship—a fake breakup—with an attractive coworker. I am a professional.

He walks back over to our desks and drops into his chair. “I’m sorry about Puget Sounds,” he says, stretching out his long legs until they touch the base of my chair. He nudges his foot against it, spinning my chair a couple of inches in one direction. “Your last show really was good.”

“Thanks. It’s been . . . kind of hard to let it go.”

“I get that. You’ve only worked on that show,” he says, and I nod. “Look. I know why you don’t like me.”

“What? I don’t—I don’t not like you,” I say, getting stuck on the double negative.

“Shay, Shay, Shay,” he says, slurring my name. “Come on. I took a class on nonverbal communication in grad school, and even if I hadn’t, I’m not an idiot. It drives you wild that you’re not the young hotshot anymore, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The intern who worked her way up to senior staff faster than anyone else in the station’s history. You were the overachiever, and now you’re . . .”

“Old?”

His eyes go wide, and his feet land hard on the floor. “No! Shit, no, I didn’t mean that.”

“We’re only five years apart. You’re technically a millennial, too.” A very young one.

“I know. I know. I’m trying to figure out how to say this. It’s hard when you feel like you can’t impress the people you want to.”

“And what would you know about that?” Despite the relationship we’ve crafted tonight, I have to remind myself he doesn’t really know me, even if this conversation indicates otherwise.

“I’m the youngest of five kids,” he says. “Everything I did, one of my siblings had already done, and usually better than I had.”

And although he’s still tight-lipped about why he and Mia Dabrowski broke up, this feels much more real than anything he’s said all night. Shortly after he started drinking, he told me it was the distance. He was leaving Illinois, and she wanted to stay. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story.

“I’ve been . . . not the nicest person to you. And I’m sorry. It’s possible I’ve also been a little bit jealous.” I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

“More like—” He reaches for my hand and pushes my fingers farther apart. The brush of skin on skin is gentle, despite how much larger his hand is. “But I probably haven’t been the easiest to get along with, either. You’re good at what you do. I’ve thought so since I started.”

That compliment warps my boozy brain, drawing out another one of my fears.

“What if this doesn’t work?” I ask quietly.

He inches his chair closer, until he’s directly in front of me. He doesn’t smell like his usual ocean-sage cologne. Tonight’s scent is something woodsy. Earthier. Maybe even . . . better?

I need a paramedic.

He places one hand on each of my armrests, giving me an up-close and personal view of his forearms. The muscles in his arms flex as he grips the armrests, and I have to wrench my gaze away— up to his face, which is maybe more dangerous.

While I’ve noticed his crooked smile, his single dimple on the left side, I’ve never paid attention to how lovely his mouth is, his bottom lip just barely thicker than his top.

You’re good at what you do.

“It’s going to,” he says, matching my soft tone. “I didn’t play Curly McLain in my middle school’s production of Oklahoma! for nothing.”

“You didn’t tell me you were a theater kid.” I try to picture him in a cowboy hat—anything to keep me from wondering what his mouth would taste like. His knees are right up against the edge of my chair. If my legs weren’t tucked, I’d be in his lap.

“No, the theater kids hated me. I killed my audition, but I’ve always had terrible stage fright. I’d have panic attacks before I went onstage every night.”

Might have been helpful to know that before agreeing to do a live radio show with the guy. It’s tough to wrap my mind around. He’s never not seemed confident at work, except when he froze up on Puget Sounds.

“You have terrible stage fright,” I echo, the beer in my stomach sloshing around. “And yet you’re cool to host a radio show?”

He shakes his head. “This is fine. There’s no audience—well, not one that you can see, anyway. I’m okay with smaller groups, but anything more than a dozen people, and my lungs suddenly decide not to work. Once I found my footing with Paloma, it felt like I was talking just to her.” With his legs, he pushes off my chair, putting a foot of space between us. I let out a shaky breath. Space. Yes. That’s probably good. “You must really be a lightweight. Your face is bright red.”