Page 4 of Under the Weatherman
I laughed, though I actually loved to read, living vicariously through romantasy novels since I was gun shy about the real thing. But I let it go.
In the awkward pause, I overheard Bas mention the food network. “Watching others cook is relaxing. You find it entertaining?”
Chelsea said, “It’s my porn.”
Bas leaned in. “And if I cooked for you in my kitchen?”
Internally, I cringed at his obvious come-on, but Chelsea looked like she might drool, so I decided to play wingman. “You would die if you ever ate Basil’s cooking. He’s an artist.”
She dragged her teeth across her lower lip, her interest fully piqued. “What would you make?”
Bas dunked the alley-oop. “Anything you want. I’m a chef.”
Chelsea grabbed the bar, like she might swoon. “Where do you work?”
“Do you know the organic market on Main?”
She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “That’s where I know you! I practically live there.”
“Then it’s for you I’ve been cooking all this time.” Oh, my God. The cheese. “Come find me next time you’re in. I’ll give you a sample.”
Instead of jumping on the invitation, Chelsea just said, “You’re funny.”
Bas had his work cut out.
“Do you both live in Charlottesville?” I asked. It wasn’t uncommon for the kids I went to high school with to move closer in to town or, like me, go to college here.
Chelsea said, “We live nearby. What about you?”
“I’m only in town for tonight. I live in Indiana right now.”
“Oh, wow.” Lizzy said. “And what do you do there?”
“I’m a meteorologist for a newscast.”
“You’re a weatherman?” She sounded skeptical. “Like on TV?” As if I’d make something like that up.
Chelsea arched a brow. “Seriously?”
Why would I lie? “I work at a news channel.” I frowned as I recalled I’d been terminated from my last place of employment. “Or did. What about you? Do you still play the tuba?”
When Chelsea snorted, I thought I’d made another mistake, but to my relief, Lizzy said, “Yes,” with a sort of defiant confidence and a glare tossed at her friend. “I’m very active in the local symphony.”
“That’s exciting,” I said, trying to work out why her friend would tease her about something like that. “Is that what you do for a living?”
“Oh no,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I earned my doctorate in zoolinguistics and travel the world giving papers on how to talk to animals.” Before I could parse that out, she added, “Of course, I had to learn several human languages as well.”
I scratched my jaw. I couldn’t tell if she was yanking my chain, but I bit. “Like what?”
She shrugged, tossing her head with an adorable nonchalance. “Oh, uh, Atlantian because of the dolphins. And of course pig Latin.”
I burst out laughing. “Is that their native tongue?”
She tried to keep a straight face, but a wry smile cracked when she added, “Pigs have a lot to say.”
“I’d rather not know that.” I covered my mouth, hiding mock horror. “Makes me feel guilty for how delicious they are.”
She winced. “Oh, yeah. Wait till you hear about their hopes and dreams.”
