She and Dave burst into laughter at the precise moment that Superman looked up and met her eyes again. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, and she swallowed hard. He looked effortlessly cool with one hand tucked into his pants pocket, nodding thoughtfully at whatever Kirby was saying.
Effortlessly cool and utterly off-limits. She had rules. And besides, the music break was over, and she and Dave were back on air in five seconds. Thankfully, she had years of experience in shoving away the real world as soon as theOn Airlight lit up. But while Dave shuffled papers for their upcoming events segment, her traitorous eyes flicked to the greenroom once more. Superman was watching her again, and the moment he noticed her noticing him, he spun around to rejoin the conversation his buddy was having with Kirby.
Ridiculous to feel self-conscious, yet there it was. No way was she going to let him catch her looking at him again. Besides, he wasoff-limits.The reminder was what she needed to force her eyes back to Dave, whose fuzzy brows arched above his glasses in a question.
“All good?”
“Absolutely. Let’s go.” She filled her lungs and exhaled hard to jettison the distractions plaguing her brain. The instant Dave turned on their mics and launched into one of the bits they’d prepped that morning, her awareness of the men beyond the recording faded and she was in it again, the entirety of her focus now on Dave, their show, their connection.
Two hours later, her insides were warm from all those good morning-radio vibes as she and Dave signed off for the day. Once they were clear, they exchanged deejay fives—air slaps that didn’t require lazy radio hosts to get out of their chairs and actually smack palms—and then they both jumped when a knock on the big studio window startled them. It was Blondie, grinning like a kid tapping away at fish in an aquarium. He gestured for them to step into the greenroom to join him and Superman. Kirby was nowhere to be seen.
“Shall we?” Dave asked.
She lifted her chin. “No other option. They’re between us and the exit.” But her heart pounded harder than it should have as she stepped through the door Dave held open. She pasted an artificially bright smile on her face and prepared to impress the new bosses with her professionalism and complete lack of distractedness.
Blondie spoke first.
“Dave and Mabel, hello! I’m Brandon Lowell from Lowell Consolidated Media, the new owner of this station. I’m here to check out the lay of the land.”
With his dipstick.She swore that sometimes if she thought a joke hard enough, Dave could actually hear it. His small chuff of laughter told her this was one of those times.
Brandon turned and gestured to Superman. “This is Jake Carey with Black, Phelps, and Suarez out of Chicago. He’s the accountant here to sort out the books.”
Jake inclined his head, but unlike their through-the-window staring bursts, he kept the eye contact brief before nodding to Dave and then focusing his attention on Brandon.
“Would you two have a seat?” Brandon pointed at the greenroom couch like a king commanding his subjects. “I’d love to talk a little bit about what you see for your future here at WNCB.”
“Oh no, not the velour,” Dave muttered, and Mabel bit her lip to contain her nervous giggle.
Although the battered couch was comfortable enough for a deejay who needed a quick nap between shifts, it was also covered in a number of suspicious stains and tended to sag toward the middle. When she and Dave settled in, they ended up shoulder to shoulder and sitting much lower than Brandon, who stood in the middle of the room to address the peasants, while Jake leaned against the greenroom desk. Its uneven legs wobbled under his weight, but he just shifted to accommodate the instability, the navy suit fabric stretching taut over his thighs. Wishing she could be so unflappable in the face of uncooperative furniture, Mabel surreptitiously tugged the hem of her skirt as close to her knees as she could get it and fought the urge to fluff the headphone divot out of her hair.
“Congratulations on having the second-most popular morning show in this market!” Brandon boomed once they were settled. “You two are a big reason that Lowell Consolidated purchased your station. That and the fact that WNCB was one of the few independently owned radio shops left in the US.”
Mabel studied him as he spoke, wondering why he didn’t leave her as flustered as his partner. He was handsome enough with blue eyes and sharp, clean features. But her eyes slid over to actual Clark Kent three feet away from him to confirm that yep, Brandon came across as a lesser specimen of manhood. A little less imposing, a little less handsome. A little… less. Meanwhile, Jake had assumed enough control over the rickety desk to cross one ankle over the other, looking artfully posed and a little bored.
It wasn’t like her to let broad shoulders and thick, shiny hair distract her. Ditto that long stretch of neck running from Jake’s jaw down to his crisp white shirt collar. That wasdefinitelynot worth a second glance. And—
Oh God, Brandon had been talking this whole time. She refocused in time to hear him conclude. “So that’s why I’m here for the time being, to observe your work and make some decisions about the future. At some point next week, I’d like to sit in the booth to watch you run your show.”
She and Dave nodded in agreement, not that they had any choice in the matter. Then all their heads turned when the greenroom door opened and Skip Stevens, the dayside deejay, entered to start his ten a.m. shift. With his deep voice, bald scalp, and droopy jowls, he’d always reminded her of a basset hound. Skip’s hangdog expression looked especially hound-like today as he took in the tableaux: she and Dave sitting like chastised children on the greenroom couch, Jake lounging on a desk that was trying its best to buck him off, and Brandon beaming toothily at all of them.
“Oh hi,” Skip said, mopping at the sweat on his shiny dome. “This is… Are you…? Yeah, I’ve got to get on the air.” He dove into the studio like it was the last available Uber in a ten-mile radius and had the headphones over his ears and theOn Airsign illuminated with remarkable swiftness. Apparently unperturbed by the interruption, Brandon clapped his hands together, barked, “Excellent!” and pulled his phone from his pocket, exiting the room without a goodbye.
“Good meeting,” Dave muttered, freeing himself from the pillowy embrace of the couch after a short struggle. She’d started to lever herself up too when Jake flowed off the desk and extended his hand to her.
Mabel’s first instinct was to recoil; everything about him was big and beautiful and overwhelming. What if she touched him and they both burst into flame? But that was silly. When had that ever happened to anyone in real life? And besides, he was off-limits.
By then she’d hesitated long enough that a touch of confusion crept into Jake’s friendly expression, so she hurriedly shoved her hand into his and let him pry her up from the quicksand couch.
Had she been worried about bursting into flame? The jolt she experienced when his hand closed around hers was so much more intense than that. His bare palm, warm and a little rough, settled against hers like a lightning strike, all sparks and tingles. Her pulse jumped, her breathing hitched, and she’d bet her mother heard the gong of imminent grandchildren all the way up in Minnesota.
Mabel didn’t know how long she stood there holding his hand. Maybe a few seconds. Maybe a few decades. All she knew was that at Dave’s loud “ahem,” she dropped Jake’s hand and prepared to launch into a competitive round of “ignore the crackling chemistry.”
Then she snuck a glance at Jake’s face and saw… nothing. No emotion, no spark of interest. Just an unreadable stare and a murmured “Nice to meet you both” before he pivoted sharply and left the room.
She watched him go in baffled silence until Dave gave a low whistle.
“Well, good thingthatwasn’t weird,” he said.
