“For safety, obviously. I’m not riding a bike.”
“Obviously,” I echo, watching her find the ski goggles. She stands and pulls her hair out of the ponytail she’s had it in, shaking the long strands free. “You do know rainfall flooding makes up 57 percent of direct hurricane deaths in the last decade, right? Water kills more people than wind.”
“Oh, I’m aware of the statistics. It’s in case I’m live streaming and can’t protect my head. I can prevent myself from walking into floodwaters. I can’t prevent a tree branch from falling on me.”
“And the goggles?”
“For debris. And so I can see when the winds pick up. I used them during a Category 3 a couple years ago, and they worked wonders.”
“Huh.” I hum. “Maybe I need a partnership with a ski goggle brand.”
“No making fun of me.”
“I cannot promise that, but I’ll do my best.”
Quincy sighs and slides the goggles over her face. She adjusts the strap around the back of her head, tightening the eye protection, and holds her arms out at her sides. “What do you think?”
“Oh, my god.” My lips twitch. I cough into my fist, trying to cover up my laugh. I fail miserably when the bark of a chuckle rumbles out of me. “Please tell me you have your helmet. I dare you to put it on.”
“You owe me.” She turns and opens her trunk, grabbing a dark blue helmet and buckling it under her chin. My fingers twitch. We’re perfectly safe, away from any threats, but I still want to check the strap. I want to make sure it’s secure. “There. The complete look. Quincy Monroe’s hurricane preparedness.”
“Please let me take a picture of you.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t already for blackmail somewhere down the road.”
“It’s definitely blackmail material. Can I post the photo on social media?”
“You were on my show. It’s not like people don’t know we spent the day together. Go ahead, Dunn. It better bring me at least a million new followers.”
“You’re overestimating my worth.” I wrestle my phone out of my pocket, moving until I have the perfect angle. The lighting is moody. Behind her, shingles are strewn across the ground. “Smile, Quinny baby.”
Quincy sticks out her tongue, hands on her hips. She might be trying to act like she’s miserable, but I can see the grin she’s fighting off. The easiness in her movements, and it makes me smile too.
I snap a couple shots, quick to upload my favorite one to social media. No filter, no#sponsoredcontent. Nothing but her looking goofy as hell, my shadow just in the edge of the photograph, a caption ofhurricane chasing with the ultimate weather girltyped out under it.
I tag her, too,@TheRainyDayShowproudly displayed on my screen.
Why the hell not?
The rest of today has been an anomaly: having a good time at work. The two of us getting along.
Might as well keep it going.
The picture uploads, and my phone immediately begins to buzz with notifications. I silence them, tucking the device away and rapping my knuckles on the top of her helmet.
“The water is receding,” I say. “It’s getting pulled back to the bay.”
“Good.” Quincy takes off her protective gear and slides it in her trunk next to a duffel bag. “Think the roads are safe?”
“The highway is only a mile up the road. We’re at a higher elevation than we were during the storm. We should be okay.”
“Guess that means it’s time to head out.”
“Want to grab some food first?”
“Pardon?”
“Food. Eating. The thing people do after they’ve been on their feet all day and haven’t consumed enough calories to sustain basic bodily functions.”
