Wreck the Halls(26)
This was no big deal.
Melody focused on Danielle and did her best to pretend the camera was invisible. “I’m ready when you are.”
Danielle shifted side to side and lifted her chin, giving Melody the impression that she was delivering her own mental pep talk. “We’ve been running your confessional with Beat for the last forty-eight hours and there is significantly more interest now. Our main request on the message boards has been for information about you.”
“About . . . me? The questions are normally about Steel Birds or Trina,” she muttered, smoothing the front of her dress unnecessarily. “I’m . . . well. I live in Brooklyn and I work in book restoration. Try not to die from excitement. I’m basically a shut-in, but once a week I play in a bocce league. I use the term ‘play’ loosely. It’s more like throwing the ball with my eyes closed and praying I don’t knock anyone unconscious. Um. I date myself. Is that . . . should I talk about that?”
Danielle nodded vigorously.
“Okay. I take myself on dates once a week. Sometimes thrifting, if there are no good movies playing and I’m feeling adventurous. But always to a new restaurant. It’s kind of a game where I never go to the same place twice. Has our viewer count dropped into the hundreds yet?”
The producer checked her phone but didn’t answer Melody’s question directly. “You have a partner in crime on this mission to reunite Steel Birds. Do you and Beat have a game plan?”
Hot sand filtered down from the top of Melody’s head to the soles of her feet, the pulse fluttering in the smalls of her wrists. At the mention of his name. Pathetic. “Yes.” Speak up. You sound breathless. “We’re going to gently approach our mothers about a reunion and probably have ourselves written out of their wills.”
The cameraman’s chest rumbled with mirth.
“How well do you know Beat?” Danielle asked, after a brief glance at Joseph.
“Not well. Not well at all.” Danielle didn’t ask a follow-up question and the silence stretched out so long that Melody felt compelled to fill it. “I-I mean, I feel like I know him. That doesn’t mean anything, does it? A lot of people probably feel like they know Beat, because he’s so personable. When he looks at you, everything just kind of fades away and . . .”
Danielle gave her a signal to keep going.
Going where, though? Melody hadn’t intended to say any of this out loud.
Not in her lifetime.
But the red light was blinking. People were watching, waiting for her to continue. “Yeah, everything just kind of fades away when he’s around, I guess. He’s kind and thoughtful and you’ve seen him. He’s . . . beautiful.” Her palms were beginning to sweat, head feeling light. “Is it possible to take a quick bathroom break—”
Beat rounded the corner into the room.
Joseph’s camera remained pointed at Melody—and she wished it wasn’t, because it captured the exact moment she saw Beat in a tuxedo for the first time. Somehow, the sight was superior even to sweaty shorts and a bare torso. Her brain sort of blubbered around for a few seconds, then slid out of her ear in a soupy substance. Had the tuxedo been constructed around his every muscle?
Yes, dum-dum. That’s called tailoring.
Briefly, she flashed back to the first afternoon they met, when he’d blown in out of the rain and charged the atmosphere with electricity. He still had that ability in spades, especially in that custom tuxedo, but it was subtler now. Like his spectacular energy had been depleted by his surroundings. Perhaps by whatever had caused him to need this show.
He needed this show.
It was even more obvious today, thanks to the dark circles under his eyes.
Okay. She would tap-dance in front of the camera, if necessary.
Mel, he mouthed. Then, out loud, “Mel?”
“I’m sorry. Do you see this dress?” She pursed her lips. “I only respond to my name if it’s pronounced with a French accent now.”
His blue eyes dropped to her toes and slowly raked upward. That ribbon of something potent, something she couldn’t name, took a staycation before he managed to hide it. Wow. Was it possible he found her attractive? Today, she could sort of believe it, thanks to the makeover, but that didn’t explain the other times she’d caught him staring.
In the interest of making good television, she threw her arms out wide and dove straight into some unpracticed jazz hands—as if to say ta-da!—but Beat must have misinterpreted the action as her asking for a hug, because he took two lunging steps in her direction and locked her in a tight embrace. “Oh,” she breathed, her arms turning to thousand-pound weights and hanging there, her heart firing up into her mouth. “Hi.”
“Hey, Peach.” He dipped his head, his nose brushing the side of Melody’s neck and oh God, she could actually feel her pupils dilating. A tidal wave of blood traveled south, heating along the way and her pulse skip, skip, skipped before settling into a sprint. “You still smell like gingerbread. At least they didn’t fuck with that.”
“I love a seasonal scent,” she responded dully, her eyelids drooping involuntarily.
Beat’s laugh sounded almost pained as he stepped back, his attention lingering and sharpening on her breasts, before he dragged a hand down his face and turned away.
“Um.” Melody tucked some of her freshly glossed hair behind her ear. “How did your mother react to the whole live stream thing?”