Chase Me If You Can(105)
Try. I shove my phone in my pocket and get to my feet. With barely two weeks until this whole thing is supposed to happen, I don’t need Emma to spell it out for me. I’m lucky she found one potential replacement. There might not be another.
“Haley Morgan, my very favorite weather girl.” I pitch my voice low to keep it from carrying over the whir of espresso machines and milk steamers. It’s a gamble to use that phrase when she’s already told me she hates it, but I figure it will get her attention.
It might work a little too well. Haley whips around, eyes narrowed and spitting fire. It’s a look I remember.
Despite my better judgment, I haven’t entirely forgotten how that first meeting started. The way that time seemed to slow for just a moment when she crashed into me and tipped her face up to mine. I blinked. She blinked. I tried to form words, half wondering if I’d gotten something in one of my contacts—and then she opened her mouth.
Turns out the weird sensation in my gut was nothing more than the consequences of some questionable leftovers the night before.
This time, I blame my stomach flip on dread. I’m about to try to charm a woman determined not to be charmed. A woman who definitely isn’t happy to see me by the way her features contort into an almighty scowl. The feeling is somewhat mutual—Haley Morgan isn’t the person I’d pick to spend a month in close quarters with—but we’re both here for a reason. I know mine—and I have to think hers has something to do with quitting her job on the spot this morning.
“What are you doing here?” Haley’s eyes dip down to my chest and then dart back up. “I see you’ve finally found a shirt at least.”
I can’t help a grin. She’s prickly and cold as a glacier, but that day when she ran into me—quite literally—her hands were soft and warm on my bare skin. It wasn’t my idea to take my shirt off as part of the morning show interview, but two years ago I was dumb enough to go along with it.
Haley looked then, and she’s looking now. At least all those hours on that damn treadmill are doing something.
“What’s wrong, princess?” I ask with innocently wide eyes. Maybe matching her energy isn’t my best tactic, but I’m not in the mood to let her dictate this conversation. “Past your bedtime?”
“My name is Haley. Not weather girl. Not princess. Haley.”
I open my mouth to fire back, but then it registers. She sounds exhausted. Of course she does. Whatever pushed her into quitting her job, it happened this morning. And I know enough about morning news programs to know that it probably is past her bedtime.
“Sorry.” I scrub my palm over my face and try again. This time I remind myself that I might need her to say yes far more than she needs me to want her on this trip. “I grabbed a table in the back where we can talk.”
Haley gives me a weird look. “And why would I do that?”
Emma didn’t tell her either. Great. I lean closer to make sure I’m not overheard. “To talk about the…training. In Oklahoma.”
Haley’s face contorts into some interesting expressions. The sort of expressions that usually come just before telling a guy to fuck right off, but all she says is, “Is that what you’re calling it?”
I glance pointedly around the cafe. “You signed an NDA before you came here, yeah?”
Her mouth pinches with irritation. “Fine. After you.”
Neither of us speaks until we’re settled in the corner. I slide one of the cookies I grabbed earlier across the table on a napkin as a peace offering. Lana will flip out if it gets back to her that I ate two cookies only days before a magazine cover shoot. But beyond the demands of my tyrannical trainer, I haven’t forgotten Emma’s implied warning. Sugar is as good a peace offering as any.
I need this. I’ve been looking forward to it for too long. A chance to learn something, a chance to actually think and not just stand around with my shirt off. And if I play my cards right, maybe a chance for a lot more than that.
“What’s this?” Haley pokes the cookie like I’ve offered up a poisoned apple.
“Well, when some flour, sugar, and butter love each other very much—”
“I know how cookies are made.” She snaps off a piece and pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly. “Cookie for dinner seems appropriate for the day, though, so.”
I don’t respond right away. It’s a trick I’ve learned over the years, letting other people fill the silence with their preconceived notions of who I am and laughing it off. I brace for more of the same insults Haley hurled at me two years ago, more insinuations that there’s nothing but protein powder and dumbbells between my ears.
She breaks off another piece of the cookie and watches me while she chews before she eventually asks in a surprisingly even voice, “Why am I here, Tyler?”
“To talk about Okl—”
“You really want to spend a month in a car with me? They’re long days.” She fidgets with one corner of the napkin and then quickly folds her hands in her lap. “Eight to ten hours is normal, but twelve to sixteen isn’t that unusual.”
“Right.” I draw out the i and eye her over the rim of my cup before taking a sip and setting it down. “You know those are pretty standard set hours, right? I’ll be just fine sitting in an air-conditioned car. Practically a vacation. Maybe I should be asking you if you can handle the long days?”