“Thanks?” I say, looking down at my knees.
“Shall we?” Brady asks, and he hooks out an arm. I grab my purse, stand, and weave my arm through his. He smiles at me, and I smile back.
After today, it’s actually a breath of fresh air to see Brady. He’s like a little beacon of light on what turned out to be a dark day, with his gelled-back hair and dark-rimmed glasses.
Later that night as I work on the curio cabinet, using a sanding disc attached to a drill as I carefully work on the ornate parts of the piece, I think about my day. I’ve been put on a feature on the evening news. For any other feature, this would be a big deal for me. I’d be telling everyone. I’ve finally gotten what I wanted, but it’s not exactly how I wanted it. This is the theme of my life: not exactly how I wanted it.
And that’s really it. Maybe life isn’t how anyone wants it. Maybe that’s the reality no one admits to. Life is more about settling than it is about getting what you want. They can’t teach you that in school, though—that whole “Reach for the stars” thing doesn’t have quite the same effect as “Reach for something near the stars and learn to be happy with it.”
All my stars, all my dreams, feel fully out of reach right now.
Chapter 14
Dwayne wasn’t kidding when he said that we’d be moving fast on this whole “Date Our Executive Producer” thing. It’s been less than a week, and I’m currently standing next to Henry off to the side of the studio, waiting for the intro from Moriarty before going on the set with him to meet our viewers.
Everything came together so easily, so quickly—it was almost like it was meant to be. Even though I still hate the idea, and despite Moriarty doing the bare minimum to stay in Henry’s good graces. It was up to me and the interns to bring this all together. But we did, and now it’s all happening. I’m going to be on the evening news. I have a mixture of happy little butterflies and the kind that make you feel ill floating around in my stomach. Happy to finally be on the evening news. Ill because of why.
Henry appears to have none of the happy kind. At least that’s what his expression is currently conveying.
“Are you okay?” I ask in a quiet voice since we’re standing close to the set. The bright lights of the studio have a sparkle effect in his blue eyes.
I’m still annoyed with him. I did finally ask him why he didn’t want me on the feature, because I couldn’t help myself and the opportunity to ask opened up. His reasons were flimsy. Something about giving me extra work and not wanting me to “burn out” or something.
“Yeah, brilliant,” Henry says. The bead of sweat that’s currently trickling down the side of his face would say otherwise.
This is more like the Henry I remember from not all that long ago. The vulnerability in his eyes, even the nervousness. It takes me back to that first moment when I nearly choked to death on a donut in front of him. I feel like I’ve missed this side of him. He’s been almost robotic since taking the job here and finding out where I really work. Almost as if that old Henry, the one I went on a few dates with, got tucked away or put on a shelf for another day.
“You don’t look like you’re brilliant,” I say, using my best British accent on the last word.
“I might be just a tad nervous.” He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at the news desk where Moriarty and her co-anchor, David, are listening to Curtis do the sports report. As soon as Curtis is done, it’s showtime.
“It’s just that this isn’t really my thing,” Henry says, his eyes trained on the news desk. “I’ve never wanted to be on camera.”
“But isn’t that what you went to school for?”
“Being in front of the camera was never something I intended. And I’ve avoided it for the most part . . . until now.”
“Right,” I say, understanding a little more about Henry. In front of the camera was always where I’d planned to be. Even as a little girl, I used to get my parents’ small video camera out and report the news that was happening in our neighborhood. I’d stand behind a box that I had painted to look like a news desk, and then, using a hairbrush as a microphone, I’d give my report. This just in: The Morgans have lost their cat . . . again.
“Then why did you agree to this?” I ask his profile since he still won’t make eye contact with me. Am I that hard to look at? Granted, Grace Is Amazing said my makeup looked “whorish” today. I did try a little harder when I was doing my makeup this morning, but I didn’t think it was whorish.
I watch his chest rise and fall, another bead of sweat developing just below his hairline. “I thought it would be good for the station. For ratings.”
“Yeah, but we could have had an intern do it. Why did you volunteer?”
These were questions I’d been dying to ask him. Part of me—the crazy daydreamer part—came up with this idea that he was doing it to spite me because he was jealous of Boring Brady and our . . . whatever we are. That idea was so far-fetched I actually rolled my eyes at myself when I thought of it.
Henry turns to me. I’m pretty tall, but he’s got a few good inches on me, and I watch as his gaze travels from my hair down to my eyes. “Yeah, I s’pose I could have let an intern do it. Dwayne seemed keen on me having a go, though.”
“And do you do everything someone tells you to do?” I lift the corner of my mouth upward so he knows I’m teasing.
“No,” he says, his eyes moving back to the news desk. I feel almost cold when he looks away, as if his gaze and mine were sending tiny little sparks of light to each other. Like they were connected.
There I go getting all fanciful again. Whatever was there was probably from my side only. He was probably only looking at my eye makeup and agreeing with Grace Is Amazing.
“Maybe if I’d said yes to being a solicitor, I wouldn’t be standing here, about to have a mental.” He looks at me again, the corner of his mouth hitching upward, and a tiny morsel of my animosity toward him slices off and floats away. Especially when that dimple makes an appearance.
“You’re going to be great, okay?” I say, reaching up and placing a hand on his arm. His gaze moves from my eyes to where I’ve just touched him, and I think maybe I should remove my hand, but instead, he reaches up and covers it with his, giving it a little squeeze.
My stupid heart picks up its pace, and my fanciful brain starts making up crazy things like: He loves you! He wants you! He needs you!
I will him to declare these things, but Henry only says “Thanks” and then drops the hand that was touching mine, his eyes going back to the news desk where Curtis appears to be wrapping up the sports report.
I take my hand off his arm and let it hang to my side, feeling a tingling sensation in my palm. My body does weird things around Henry Pierce.
“You still dating Brady?” he asks, and my eyes dart up to his. But he keeps on staring at the news desk.
“I—”
“Sorry. It’s none of my business,” he says, shaking his head, his eyes moving to the ground in front of us, as if he can’t believe those words came out of his mouth.
See? This is why. This is why my brain runs off like it does. Because Henry keeps giving it reasons to. Why would he even want to know about Brady if I mean nothing to him? Why would he even ask?