Page 55 of And Now, Back to You

“You see this?” Jackson trails one finger along the edge of the giant red blob slowly moving across his screen. That’s distracting, too, and I thrust my hand into my bag of Swedish Fish. I am demolishing my stash of emotional support candy, and it’s only day one. “It’s slowing down,” he explains.

I blink and lean closer, my chin hovering over his shoulder. “I thought you hit a slower speed on the playback.”

He shakes his head. “No. The storm is slowing to a crawl as it creeps over the mountains. And see this?” He points to another part of the map, a graceful sweep of his pointer finger down and then up again. “The winds are—”

“Changing,” I finish for him with a little laugh. He minimizes the map he was on (the European model, thank you very much) and pulls up another. The projections are almost in perfect sync. “Holy crap. We’re about to get dumped on. What do you think? Did we just upgrade from a winter storm to a blizzard?”

Jackson nods, dragging the palm of his hand along his jaw. “We’ll have to confirm with the National Weather Service, but I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ll text Maggie and let her know. We can mention it when we do our call-in tomorrow.”

I stare hard at his jaw. He has a brand-new layer of scruff, a darker blond than the hair on his head. His hand makes a delicious scraping sound as he drags it down his face.

I grab another handful of Swedish Fish.

It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to Jackson before. It was just outweighed by everything else. But now I know what he’s really like. He’s kind. Funny in a dry, droll sort of way. Sweet. Caring.

And we’re sharing a room together for the next week with only one large, obscenely comfortable bed for the both of us. It’s like my brain has found the section where I’ve been harboring a stealthy appreciation for his bone structure and decided to throw a firework right in the middle of it. I can’t stop looking at him.

Be professional, Delilah, I remind myself. This is your chance to have everyone take you seriously. You don’t have to be a joke anymore.

It’s the reminder I need. I’m not going to fumble this assignment because I’m distracted by a mussed-looking Jackson, showing me weather diagrams.

I firm my resolve.

“Is it weird I’m sort of excited about all of this?” I gesture at the map on the computer. “This is the biggest weather event I’ve ever gotten to cover.” I laugh a little bit. “We’re going to be right in the middle of it.”

“My guess is it’ll be on top of us in a day or two.” His blue eyes are bright, framed with a thick fringe of honey blond lashes. “Being here, where we can actually see the cloud formations starting over the mountains, it’s—” He shakes his head, in awe. “I never thought I’d get to do something like this.”

“I’m buzzing. I feel like I could run down to the lake and back.”

“That’s probably the sugar talking.” He snaps his laptop shut and sets it to the side. “You’ve consumed a metric ton today.”

I reach into my gas station gallon-sized bag for another cherry red fish, popping it into my mouth. “Nuh-uh. The candy keeps me sweet.”

“Oh yeah?” He’s so close I can see the red indents on his nose from his glasses. The slight smudge on the left lens from his thumb. I extend the bag toward him and my hand bumps against his chest. He steadies it, his fingers looped around my wrist.

“Want one?” I rasp.

His gaze drags down my face and lingers on my mouth. My hand clenches the bag with a loud crinkle.

“No, thank you.”

“Okay,” I whisper back. “You’re missing out, but fine.”

He doesn’t move. “I’m sure I am.”

“More for me,” I say airily, feeling like I’ve just dropped down an elevator shaft. Or maybe had one of those dreams where I’m falling only to wake up abruptly with my heart in my throat.

We sit there against the headboard, staring at each other. It would be so easy to close the space between us. See how our mouths fit together. Suck at his full bottom lip until he made another rough sound, deep in his throat. Feel the scrape of his scruff against my cheek. My jaw. The soft, delicate place between my breasts.

But those are not colleague-friendly thoughts. They’re not even friend-friendly thoughts. I’ve launched myself right over the neat little lines Jackson painted for us, into dangerous territory.

And we’re sharing a bed.

At my insistence.

I crawl off the bed, putting space between us. These feelings are probably just due to the proximity and having been saved from the alternative, atrocious sleeping arrangement. I’m feeling grateful and tired and wildly overwhelmed. And Jackson is nice to look at and knows about cloud formations. Delilah catnip, basically.

“Okay, well, I’m feeling a little tired, so—” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder at my suitcase, lying in the exact place I dropped it. I am absolutely not tired. I’m riding an intense sugar high and I can’t be trusted. These . . . horny feelings cannot be trusted. I back up a step. “I think I’m going to get ready for bed. To—to sleep.”