Page 73 of And Now, Back to You

“Vaguely. What did he ask?”

“He asked if you were single.”

Gianna goes silent. No squeaky desk chair. No rustling candy wrappers. I don’t even hear her breathing. I have to check the screen of my phone to make sure our call is still connected.

“Want to share what that’s all about?”

“I have no idea,” she says, sounding guilty as hell.

I laugh out loud. Jackson shifts in front of the coffeepot, hand rubbing at his neck.

“You’re such a bad liar,” I tell her.

“Yeah? Pot meet kettle.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” She snorts. “He’s being nice,” she grumbles to herself.

I laugh again. Jackson smiles to himself as he pours out the coffee then ambles over to the bed with a mug in each hand. There’s something deliciously soft about his bedhead and sleep-rumpled shirt. Jackson, before the rest of the world gets to see him.

“We’ll be discussing this at a later date,” I promise.

“Not if I can help it. I’m saying goodbye now.”

“Goodbye. Eat something that isn’t prepackaged,” I tell her. “Preferably green.”

“Bah,” she says, and then she’s gone. I toss my phone back onto the nightstand and settle against the headboard. Jackson hands me my cup of coffee, our fingertips brushing, then settles on the bed next to me, his long legs stretched out in front of him. It’s so simple, so lovely. To just sit here quietly with another person. To not have to be anything except myself.

“How’s it looking out there?” I ask.

He smiles at me over the rim of his mug. “Like a massive weather system is settling in. By the time we broadcast this morning, we might have some of that weather people fighting for their lives content viewers seem to love so much.”

I laugh. “I did bring ski goggles, just in case.”

“I’d ask if that’s a joke, but I saw them in your suitcase.”

“Brought a pair for you too.”

He snorts, turning halfway, looking back toward the window. His face is cast in grays and blues, his eyes so bright they look like sapphires.

“Lucky me,” he says easily. And it doesn’t sound like a joke, or sarcasm, or any of the dry intention he usually laces his words with.

It sounds like he means it.

He’s right, of course.

Standing out on the patio today is a completely different experience than yesterday. We might as well be standing at the edge of one of the polar ice caps. The wind bites at my cheeks and snow slips through every crevice it can find, burning cold against my skin. We’re going to have to figure out something else for the rest of our broadcasts.

I tug my hood tighter and push my snow goggles up my forehead, shivering in my boots. Jackson isn’t doing much better. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, his hood pulled up over his head. Snowflakes keep landing against his glasses and he wipes them away impatiently, streaks of moisture obscuring his lenses.

“Do you want your goggles?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I root around in my pocket and pull out a scone I saved from breakfast. “Food?”

He shakes his head again, looking a little lost. Another sharp gust of wind howls through the trees and I balk, tucking my chin into the collar of my jacket. Jackson finally looks at me, a frown between his brows.