I was jealous of them. If things were different, I would have stepped up to the challenge. It was two against one, and I loved a good underdog fight. It made the victory even sweeter.
Somehow, Tara and I made it through the meal without straying back to our original conversation, and although we were friendly, there was tension hovering over us. She was probably worried I was judging her, which I wasn’t. I was worried about slipping and confessing that the brief night we’d shared three weeks ago had been one of the hottest things I’d ever experienced.
Not to mention, I’d spent months trying to get a lead into the story of the club, and Tara could bust the thing wide open for me. That was, if I was the kind of guy who was willing to use her like that.
I wasn’t . . . was I?
“I’m not going to hear from you again, am
I?” she asked when the check arrived. “I’m too weird for you.”
I snatched up the bill as she reached for it. “No, not at all. You’re exactly my brand of weird.”
“If you say so.” She didn’t believe me. “Okay, where does that leave us?”
There was a huge lie wedged between us, and I was the one who’d put it there. I swallowed thickly. “Hanging out and not sleeping with each other—I guess that makes us friends?”
She pressed her lips together. This wasn’t the answer she hoped for, but it wasn’t a total loss either.
“Okay,” she said finally. “But friends split the bill, Grant.”
Monday morning, I was drinking my second cup of coffee when a production assistant came scurrying up to me, her eyes wide with fear. “Morgan needs to see you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Wardrobe put her in a size eight dress.”
“Shit,” I muttered and drank the rest of my coffee in two huge gulps. “Where is she?”
“In makeup.”
I tossed my paper cup into the garbage and checked my watch as I made my way toward the makeup department. I’d need to handle this quickly. If she was in tears, we might not have enough time to fix the damage, and I wasn’t going to put her on-air with a runny nose and mascara smudged under her eyes.
Morgan was seated in the chair in front of the bright mirror, white napkins tucked into the collar of her dress to protect it while the makeup artist brushed powder on her forehead. As soon as the artist saw me, she stepped back, shoved her brush into her apron, and gave me a knowing look.
“I’m gonna grab some coffee,” she said.
The woman didn’t want to hear the upcoming conversation, and I couldn’t blame her. I certainly didn’t want to be having it . . . again.
Morgan’s gaze found mine through the mirror, and she grabbed the armrests of the chair, pushing up to stand. “Grant, finally. Look at this dress.”
It was hard to miss because it was a bold yellow. Wardrobe liked to put her in happy colors because it was a morning show, and the short dress was cute with scalloped edges. The color was good on Morgan. Her skin looked tan and her blonde hair was a softer hue, complimenting the dress color instead of clashing with it.
She pinched the dress at her side, her pretty face filled with irritation. “It’s huge on me.”
It wasn’t. There was barely a millimeter of fabric between her fingers. “I think it looks fine.”
“Fine?” Her face flooded with alarm.
“Great,” I said quickly. “It looks great.”
She turned to face the mirror and reevaluate, her expression dubious. “I just want clothes that fit me. I mean, I’ve never been an eight in my life.”
Except I’d instructed the wardrobe department to switch out the labels of her dresses before fitting. The sizes seemed to be arbitrary. One brand’s size four could be a two or a six in another. What difference did it make what was on the label? I’d never understand why it mattered so much to her, but then again, she was Morgan. Everything mattered when it came to appearance.
I pinched the bridge of my nose as I mustered up the strength. “It looks perfect to me. It’s very flattering.”
“Yeah?”