Page 36 of Under the Weatherman
We’d gotten through some of the basics when a voice interrupted us. “Hi, Evan.”
One of the women who’d interviewed me hovered in the doorway, a clipboard pressed to her chest. Laura? Laurel?
“Hi.” I straightened, waiting for her to speak.
“Thanks for coming in early. I’m Lauren Bart in case you forgot. I’ll be your news producer.” Her shirt opened distractingly, unbuttoned just low enough to flash a little cleavage. I maintained eye contact. “We have some things to go over still. Could we talk over coffee? Or lunch?”
I hesitated, searching for a tactful reason to turn her down, but she was the producer after all. “Coffee would be great.”
We walked outside together, chatting about my drive from Indiana. When we reached the pedestrian mall, she pulled her jacket around her tighter. “Is it my imagination or is the temperature dropping?”
“There’s a cold front moving in.”
“Oh, right. You oughta know.”
I didn’t point out that anyone with a weather app could see how the next few hours were shaping up, but it was just small talk. My job amounted to small talk.
At the coffee shop, I held the door for her, and as she stepped through, she brushed against me. I stiffened, hoping it wasn’t intentional. Shaking it off, I followed Lauren in, then stopped cold when I discovered Chelsea Abbott working the cash register.
Shit. I figured I’d run into one of them at some point, but I wasn’t prepared. Just seeing Basil’s tormentor brought back memories from that night, when I’d been under the delusion I might build something with her devious best friend.
I turned back toward the door. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for coffee after all.”
“So, lunch?” Lauren smiled coquettishly and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Shit. Was she trying to flirt?
Maybe I’d made a mistake taking this job. The last thing I needed was office intrigue. In another context, I might have been interested. Lauren was pretty, maybe even my type, but I’d stopped appraising women strictly on their looks a long time ago. I wanted chemistry and conversation. I wanted laughs and connection, to know someone and be known for who I was, not what I looked like.
And definitely not at work.
Interacting with Chelsea suddenly seemed like the lesser of two evils. “I’ll just get some hot tea.”
As the line inched forward, I kept my eyes down, postponing the inevitable. But eventually, I stood in front of the woman who dared Elizabeth to lie to me. The woman Bas was in a twist over, even if he wanted to play it cool.
Chelsea’s eyes popped wide before they narrowed in a kind of scorn that likely mirrored my own, both of us thinking,How dare you reject my best friend?
She shot a glance over at Lauren, lips pressing together as she formed the wrong impression. Great. It would be easy enough to clear up, but I didn’t owe Chelsea or Elizabeth anything. She had no right to judge me for cutting things off with her friend. At least I’d called. At least I’d been honest. Meanwhile, she was stringing Bas along, dribbling out pieces of herself while keeping him at arm’s length. Bas deserved better.
“We’re together,” Lauren said, pulling out her debit card. “I’d like a peppermint mocha with skim milk.”
Chelsea turned her attention to me. I didn’t even want anything, but I’d committed myself to tea. I’d never ordered tea from a coffee shop in my life, so I wasn’t even sure what to say. “Uh, tea.”
She flipped a hand at the list of available options. “Which?”
I shot a cursory glance at the assortment and blurted, “Earl Grey.”
“Are you sure?” She arched a brow. “You seem like someone who likes to sample.”
Her subtext was obvious, but I pretended we were still talking about the tea I wasn’t going to drink. “I’m pretty uncomplicated. I usually stick to one thing at a time. Just don’t tell me it’s Earl Grey when it’s actually”—I scanned the list, ruining my biting rebuke with hesitation—“chamomile.”
I noticed a lemon ginger, and wished I’d asked for that. But I’d committed to Earl Grey and made it my whole personality.
She smirked. “Not my fault if you can’t tell the difference.”
Ouch. Was that how they were excusing Elizabeth’s lies? I was somehow to blame because I believed a baldfaced fiction?
“At least I don’t refuse tea on principle without even trying it.”
Her gaze fell onto the register as she rang us up. “I’ve tried tea. It doesn’t agree with me.”
