"That's a lie," Vince challenges. I look over at him quickly, wide-eyed, horrified.
"We met an entire fifty minutes ago, not thirty. You know it, too. I can't believe you sometimes, Andy. I feel like this friendship means absolutely nothing to you." Vince lets out a dramatic sigh that's so theatrical it could win awards, his body slumping back against the chair like a marionette whose strings have been cut. His legs cross at the ankle as he directs a glare toward the camera lens that's probably meant to look wounded.
The studio erupts in laughter again, a wave of sound that washes over me.
The tension in my shoulders dissolves, leaving behind a strange, sweet relief.
I've been an idiot, haven't I? All this time, thinking Vince was actually trying to humiliate me, when really—this is just... him. This is his thing. The realization washes over me, warm and slightly embarrassing. My heart, which had been hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, finally slows to a more reasonable rhythm, the frantic beat settling into something closer to normal. I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching, fighting against the smile that's threatening to break through. It's getting harder and harder to resist, especially when Vince isbeing this ridiculous. His stupid jokes are starting to get under my skin in a way that has nothing to do with humiliation and everything to do with... something else entirely.
"I didn't realize you had the awareness necessary to keep track of time."
"I grew up in rural Minnesota playing hockey with a tuna can...and I also showed up over an hour late to this taping. I don't."
He delivers the line so dryly, so perfectly deadpan, that I'm completely undone. A laugh bursts out of me, raw and real, and before I can stop myself I'm doubling over, my forehead nearly smacking against the wooden table. My shoulders shake with it, the sound of my own laughter mingling with the crew's until the entire studio fills with it.
The humor washes over me, warm and cleansing, lifting the weight of anxiety that's been pressing down on my chest for hours.
Vince glances over at me, another one of those genuine smiles spreading across his face—the kind that actually reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that makes my breath catch. I see it then, the same flicker of victory in his light brown eyes that I know must be mirrored in my own when I corrected him about my name at the start of this taping.
The knots that have been twisting in my stomach for hours suddenly loosen, transforming into something else entirely—something light and fluttery that rises into my chest. A wave of dread washes over me, cold and sudden.
Oh no. Please, no. I can't have an instant crush on the guy I'm supposed to work with every single day. That would be disastrous.
In the periphery of my vision, I can feel Vince's gaze lingering on me, his attention unwavering even as the crew behind the lights maintains their hushed silence. I keep my eyes locked onthe camera lens, pretending not to notice, pretending not to feel the heat creeping up my neck.
"Hey, Andy."
"Yeah?"
"Where are you from?"
My breath catches, eyes widening as they dart between Vince and the camera lens. That's... personal. We're miles off script now, according to the papers still clutched in my hand. I should be sharing some contestant's tear-jerker backstory, but Vince's gaze is fixed on me, patient and intense. He wants the truth.
"I'm from Alaska."
Vince scoffs, a sound that seems to fill the entire studio. "I knew it."
An awkward chuckle escapes my lips. "You knew it, huh?"
He's been fighting to keep a straight face, but fails, his smirk widening into something that makes my chest tighten. His smile has this... gravitational pull. I can feel the corners of my own mouth lifting without permission, like a puppet on strings.
I'm so screwed. This isn't just a crush; it's a full-blown, schoolyard infatuation. I'm a goner.
"Sunkissed blonde hair, clean shaven. A classy, subtle tan. Coming into the studio wearing a down jacket in the middle of spring in Los Angeles. Clean hands with well trimmed nails, hands that look like they haven't done a single day of physical labor. Clearly, you are from the great northern state of Alaska."
The crew is losing it, their laughter echoing around the studio. My grin stays plastered on my face until I catch sight of the clock on the far wall.
This was supposed to be an hour-long test, giving them plenty of footage to make or break me. Suddenly, I understand why they insisted on this length, why Vince had to be here. But our time is up.
"You might want to check your watch there, Vince."
He glances at his wrist, but when his eyes meet mine again, something shifts. The playful smirk remains, but there's something else behind it, something softer. My heart starts pounding against my ribs.
I don't want this to end. Does he feel it too? Is that what's in his eyes?
Every ridiculous, immature joke—even the ones at my expense—has been making me feel giddy in a way I haven't felt in years. None of this is actually funny, this juvenile nonsense passing for television hosting. Yet that's exactly what sent me into this laughing fit.
At the realization of what's happening inside me, I immediately avert my gaze. I restack the papers in front of me, the soft clack of paper on wood grounding me, and turn back to the camera.
