Instead, I say: “I promise you that I had nothing to do with any of it. I don’t know where any of those rumors are coming from.” Even as I say that, I’d be willing to bet all of my earthly possessions that Moriarty was behind it. Someday I will reach my limit and I’ll rip one of the extensions out of her stupid, smug head. It will be a straight-up girl fight with slapping and everything.
Dwayne stares at me. I stare back. It’s my second staring showdown today. But I need him to see in my eyes that I had nothing to do with this blooper reel. I will him to see it.
He lets his gaze drop. “Okay, then. We’ll just have to see what happens.”
I feel the tension drain out of my shoulders. I won’t be losing my job today. But tomorrow is a new day. Who knows what could happen.
I walk back to my desk, feeling like everyone’s watching me. They probably are. If Dwayne had to ask me if I’m the one who leaked the video, then I’m sure others are wondering the same thing.
Thank goodness my day is over. I can go work on furniture or go home, sit on my bed, and write my name with Henry’s last name . . . except I don’t know what his last name is. I didn’t want to give him mine since I don’t want him to Google me just yet. He never asked, and I had to bite my tongue anytime my mouth almost asked for his, since I was wanting to Google him myself. But you can’t ask somebody’s last name and not offer yours. I’m sure it’s considered rude. And worrisome.
Just as I get to my cubicle, the door to the audio booth—which is directly behind my desk—opens, and out walks Brady.
“Hey,” he says as he follows me.
I take a seat, and he leans up against the desk, one foot crossing over the other. Brady is quite cute, with his longish hair hanging over his forehead. He’s got nice-looking brown eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses. Thomas would probably call him nerdy-cute. I’d say smart-cute. He looks smart. He is smart. Part of the reason he can be a bit boring is because he thinks and talks on a whole other level that I’m not entirely privy to. About politics. About the environment. About the world. I just report news other people write for me. And I restore old furniture. Brady’s interests and mine do not mesh. But we have some fun. Sort of.
“How’re things?” I ask him, because so far, he’s just leaning against my desk, looking around the room.
“I saw the blooper reel,” he says.
I slouch in my seat. “Yeah. Dwayne is not happy.”
“I’m sorry.”
He reaches over, placing a hand on my shoulder. He rubs it a couple of times. It’s a bit on the awkward side, but I know it’s meant to comfort. I smile up at him, letting him know I appreciate the gesture.
“Aren’t you two cute together,” Carlos says as he walks by, giving us a quick drive-by wink.
“Oh, I . . .”
“Thanks,” Brady says, with a quick lift of his chin to Carlos as he walks toward the area of the newsroom where all the producers sit.
I was just about to say we weren’t together before Brady interjected. I tilt my head to the side, looking at him. He gives me a closed-lip smile.
Do I need to have a conversation with Brady? I mean, we haven’t gone out in a couple of weeks. We haven’t even talked about it. No making out in the audio booth has happened in a while either. I just figure things have fizzled out. Like whatever we had ran its course. We certainly aren’t a couple . . . at least, I don’t think we are. Does Brady?
“Brady, I,” I start, but as soon as I say it, an intern calls out Brady’s name and tells him that they need to talk to him.
He leans over, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Talk later?”
“Sh . . . Sure,” I stammer.
I reach up and touch the spot on my head where his lips just were. There was no spark, no tingling. It was like a kiss you’d get from a brother. I’m assuming this, because I don’t have a brother. It was like a kiss from Thomas. Yes. That’s what it felt like.
I guess I better add “Have talk with Brady” to my to-do list. I don’t actually have a to-do list. But maybe I should make one.
Chapter 5
Thomas is an idiot.
He should have known that I wouldn’t be able to keep this up. In fact, he probably did know and was looking forward to hearing about how I ruined it.
“I thought you said you restored furniture?” Henry asks, his brows knitting together.
“I do,” I say, my mind racing around and around like a gerbil in a wheel.
“So then why was it such a rough day?”
The second question out of Henry’s mouth as we sat down at a Tex-Mex restaurant on Orange Street was, How was your day? to which I replied, Rough. Because it was a rough day. It was more than that; it was a got-pooped-on-by-a-bird kind of day.
Stupid f-bomb mistake. What a thing to be number one for. I can’t win the lottery, but I can win this.
His first question to me was, How are you? This was after he told me I looked “lovely” and kissed me on the cheek.
I had been confident when I left my apartment in a blue-gray strapless smocked maxi dress that emphasizes my smaller upper half and flatters my pear-shaped bottom half until I saw my reflection in the window of the restaurant and had a momentary freak-out that it was a bit too daring for me. Especially on a date. But Henry’s first words made me relax and stop my mind from wishing that I’d gone back to my place for a cardigan.
Now I need a reason for why I’d said my day was rough. I take a sip of the water that the server just poured, grasping at excuses for my mistake. Maybe I should come clean. I could just tell him right now.
Except that . . . Except that he’d Google me, and then he’d see it. And now there are two of them. Two viral videos. Also, when I asked him if he worked in news the last night we were out, it seemed like that wasn’t just a no from him, but a heck no. Like, he wouldn’t be caught dead working in television news. So maybe I should keep up with it, at least a little while longer. Until I know what he meant. I can’t put it off for too long. It’s only a matter of time before he turns on the TV and sees my face on there. I’ve never been more grateful than I am right now to be on the lower-rated midday news or not have my pictures on billboards.
“Um, yeah, rough. I work with wood, remember? Rough? Wood? It’s an industry joke,” I say, batting the word away with my hand like I’m just being silly when in reality it might be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever said.
“Right,” he says, his lips curving up into a genuine smile, the dimple in his right cheek even more pronounced. He’s so beautiful; it’s like I-can’t-believe-I’m-sitting-here-with-him beautiful. Especially in the dark-blue button-down shirt and jeans he’s wearing.
This is not my life. I don’t meet men like Henry, in all his British hotness, and then end up spending time with them. My mind has gone back and forth between not believing this is real and wondering if we’ll name our first son Henry Junior. He’s just so . . . pretty. And it’s not just me who’s noticed. Our server, John, has paid attention to only him since we sat in this booth and hasn’t even looked me in the eyes once. I don’t blame him.
Henry and I small talk until John returns and asks us for our order. Well, John asks Henry for his order and then stares at Henry while half-asking me for mine. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get what I ordered.