One
It was six a.m., and Mabel Bowen wanted to make some radio magic.
“You ready?” she asked.
Her cohost lifted his oversized coffee mug and tipped it straight back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. With a smack of his lips, Dave Chilton plunked the now-empty mug on the countertop and raised a challenging brow. “I am now.” He shook out his hands and stretched his neck to either side. “Let’s see if you can keep up, Bowen.”
“You’re so on.” She met his grin with one of her own and settled her headset over her ears, repositioning herself to sit cross-legged in the chair that faced him over the radio-station control board.
“Here we go in three… two…” With a flourish, Dave flipped on their mics to start the day. “Good morning, friends and foes! You’re listening to Dave and Mae in the Morning on 105.5 WNCB, the Brick, wherewe just rock.”
Although Dave’s voice would be booming through the speakers positioned in the halls of the radio station, their snug soundproof studio kept the two of them cocooned from the outside world while they unleashed their mojo. Cohosting a morning radio show meant lousy hours, but playing daily verbal tennis with her best friend more than made up for the early alarm.
“You know what else rocks?” Mabel spoke into the shock-mounted mic positioned next to her lips but kept her eyes on Dave as they got the show underway. “We’re here to ease you out the door on this glorious Wednesday morning in July. Dave, what can the residents of our fair city expect weather-wise today?”
“Hot.”
Her lips quirked at his flat tone, but she kept her voice drily sarcastic. “Wow, so specific. And tomorrow?”
“Also hot.”
“Uh-huh. Sure, sure. And then on Friday?”
“Hot again,” Dave said. “It’s summer in Beaucoeur, Illinois, people. Brace for hot!”
As he spoke, Mabel’s body gave an involuntary shiver; outside, it was pushing eighty-five with the sun barely up, but inside, the studio air-conditioning was waging its usual war to send her into hypothermic shock. She twisted in her chair, taking care not to dislodge her headphones, and snagged the emergency cardigan she kept stashed in a cubby on her side of the console. She started to pull the purple sweater on as she straightened but froze with one arm in and one arm out when she became aware of three pairs of eyes peering in through the big window that separated the recording studio from the greenroom beyond.
She recognized station owner Kirby Richardson, of course, but the two men flanking him were new. New and apparently there to redefine the wordhot. She hastily shoved her arm through the remaining empty sleeve but couldn’t tear her gaze from the two best-looking humans to ever set foot in this building. The instant Dave cut their mics to play the first song of the morning, she addressed him out of the side of her mouth. “Hey, uh, Dave?”
He looked up from the press release in his hand and followed the discreet tilt of her head toward the window where the onlookers continued to gaze in at them. He swiveled his head back toward her and voiced what she was thinking. “Our new buyers?”
“It’s either that or we’re newly enrolled in a male-model delivery service.”
“No money in the budget for that,” Dave said as she snuck another peek. All three had turned their backs to the studio and were surveying the jumble of furniture crammed into the greenroom where the deejays hung out between shifts.
“Behold, our new corporate overlords,” Dave muttered.
Kirby had announced last week that he’d finally found a suitable buyer for the station, allowing him to retire to his beloved golf course and bringing an end to a stressful and uncertain time for the station staff. Of course, these new owners ushered in an entirely new source of stress and uncertainty, but she and Dave were prepared to go down joking.
“Looks like they’re here to kick the tires,” she said.
“Mess around under the hood.”
“Poke us with their dipsticks.”
Dave’s lips twitched at her lame innuendo, and as she twisted her face into a broadly comic wink to drive the punch line home, one of the new owners turned, and his assessing gaze landed on her. Blood rushed to her cheeks at his bold stare, but no way was she backing down. She lifted her chin and studied him right back through the thick glass.
Tall. Thick black hair. Strong square jaw. Suit that cost more than her car. Muscular body filling out that suit with—
Nope. Her brain was galloping away from her toward an entirely off-limits target. She swallowed the excess saliva suddenly pooling in her mouth and forced her eyes away from what was clearly Superman in his Clark Kent persona. She glared down at the show notes crumpled in her tight fist, willing herself to project breezy nonchalance instead of unsettled awareness.
“Wonder what they’re talking about.” Dave’s whisper interrupted her rampaging thoughts. She risked another glance up and was relieved—or was that disappointed?—to see that Superman had joined his blond friend to contemplate the grimy whiteboard listing the station’s remote broadcast schedule for the next month.
“Oh, probably our slovenly deejay habits.” Even though the booth was soundproof, she kept her voice low as the blond man gestured emphatically toward the carpet. “Archibald, my good man, these surroundings simplywill notdo!”
Dave snorted and then replied in a peevish whine. “How can we be expected to work with people who labor in such appalling conditions?”
She gave an answering sniff. “Just look at this couch, Percival. Is it… My word, is thatvelour?” She pressed a hand to her chest as the two suits walked past their admittedly atrocious sofa. “Why, my tailor would be beset with the vapors were I to sit upon it and introduce this fine suit material to such low fibers!”
