Page 40 of And Now, Back to You

“You’re giving me a look.”

“What sort of look?”

He swallows and my eyes drop to the strong line of his throat. He’s all dips and lines and curves. Shadowed skin in the thin light that streams in through the windshield.

It is my professional opinion that no one should look so good while driving a news van.

“Like you’re thinking of new and creative ways to assault me with peach rings,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

“Breaking news, Jackson.” I drop my chin to my chest and do my best broadcast voice. “Woman considers new and creative ways to assault weather partner with peach rings.”

Another shiver twists my shoulders.

“Delilah,” he says, concern quickly overshadowing his amusement. “Put the jacket on.”

“Or what?” I ask.

The barest hint of a smile deepens the lines by his eyes. “Or I’ll put it on for you,” he says.

The traffic in front of us finally starts to break and he turns his attention back to the road. I unfold the jacket and carefully spread it across my lap, tucking the collar to my chin and slipping my arms through the sleeves. They fold over my hands and I curl my fingers in the buttery soft material, a happy sigh pressing out of me when I’m instantly wrapped in coffee-scented warmth.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, nosing down further in the material and tucking my legs beneath me on the seat. Only my eyes are visible, like some sort of North Face gremlin. “Much,” I say, my voice muffled. “Thank you.”

He hums. “Look at us. The picture of teamwork.”

I snort and wiggle in my coat blanket. “Does that mean you’re ready to talk about it?”

His face instantly shutters. “No,” he snaps. “I’m not.”

I let my forehead fall against the window and give in to the laughter that’s been burning a hole through the center of my chest since 6:03 a.m. We decided to introduce Jackson with the morning weather report at YBAL before we got on the road. Unfortunately, that didn’t proceed much better than the radio broadcast.

“What possessed you to wear green?” I say with another peal of laughter, my voice high and breathy. I try to wrangle control of myself but I can’t. I will be holding on to the mental image of Jackson’s floating head in front of the weather map until my dying day. “You wore a green shirt in front of a green screen, Jackson.”

Jackson drags one hand through his hair and anchors it against the back of his neck, his arm straining beneath the material of his sweater. His face is a delightful combination of bemused and bewildered and it only makes me laugh harder.

“My Friday shirt is green,” he says faintly.

“You didn’t think to change it?”

“I haven’t done a television broadcast before, Delilah. I forgot about the green screen. Radio doesn’t have a green screen.” He drops his arm with a heavy exhale. “Why didn’t you say anything to me before we started?”

“I tried to. I would have, if you didn’t wait in your car until the last possible second.”

“I was meditating,” he says, eyes squinting with the lie.

“You were stress-eating a hash brown.”

I could see him from the front window of the studio while I waited for him to come inside. He sat in the driver’s seat of his car staring at the building like he’d rather toss himself off the top of it, shoveling a greasy hash brown into his mouth.

“Listen,” I say, taking a deep breath, trying to push down on the laughter that keeps bubbling up. “If I’m forcing you to do this—”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything,” he cuts me off quickly. His features relax, that little line between his brows disappearing. “I’m fine, I’m just processing. I’m trying to figure out how to do this.”

“This?”

“The broadcasts. The . . . partnership. I want to be good at it.” He pauses for a second, then, quieter, “I don’t want to let anyone down.”