Break of Day (8 page)

A
sher hadn't lied; we did work our asses off. Or at least I did as he showed me around the weather center and gave me a crash course in Weather 101. And while there was no way I was suddenly going to get my meteorology degree overnight, I did end the day with a better understanding of what went into a forecast and how that information got compiled. Turned out, a lot of it was just data mining from weather bureaus, satellites, and radars. Stuff I could gather myself then pass off to Asher, who could then turn it into a forecast to deliver on TV.

“A lot of stations don't even use actual meteorologists,” he explained at one point. “Just weathermen.”

“What's the difference?”

“Meteorologists are scientists. We study the atmosphere and examine its effects on the environment. We can predict weather and uncover larger climate trends,” he explained. “Weathermen, on the other hand, simply read someone else's predictions on air. Pretty much anyone could do that with a few weeks' training. They just have to be good entertainers.”

I nodded slowly, watching the Doppler radar swirl on the
monitor above us. “So you're, like, a real scientist. That's pretty cool.”

“Trust me, it's not as impressive as it sounds. And I'm pretty sure I'm wrong in my predictions fifty percent of the time. If we weren't in San Diego, the land of sunshine and no rain, I'd probably have been out on my ass three years ago.” He paused, then added, “Now my father on the other hand . . .”

He trailed off. I turned to him, curious. “He was good?” I asked.

“He was the best. He could predict a storm no one else saw coming. It was incredible. He could have worked for the National Weather Service if he had wanted to.” Asher frowned, and I suddenly got the impression he disagreed with his dad's decision to stay local.

“Why did he stay here then?” I asked.

“For us, I guess,” he replied. “My mom obviously couldn't move, not without selling the station, and that was not going to happen. So my dad was left with the choice. Either he could have left us and done the long distance thing or he could have stayed.” He shrugged. “He chose to stay.”

I watched his face closely. “You don't seem to approve.”

He turned away from me. But not before I caught his eyes flashing something uncomfortable. “It's not my place to say. Everyone should make their own decisions about their careers, right?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” I said. “Absolutely.” But then I remembered what he had said earlier that day. About being a legacy. About being born to do his job. Had he been able to make his own decision? Or had he been forced into the family business, too?

Suddenly his reluctance to take his job seriously was making a little more sense.

“Well, your dad sounds like a great guy,” I said. “And I know everyone loves him. I remember when he got into that car accident. It was like all of San Diego came together to support him through the tragedy.”

Asher didn't reply, just nodded absently, and the
uncomfortable look on his face grew more intense. I cocked my head, puzzled. Was it just a tough memory for him? I mean, it had to be, right? The day he almost lost his father? But I thought there was something else, too, deep in his eyes. Something . . . angry. And . . . maybe a little hurt?

I decided not to press him, curious as I was. It wasn't my place to pry, after all. He was my coworker, nothing more. And if this was going to work, we had to keep our relationship professional. I didn't need to know his deep, dark family secrets. And he certainly would not be getting access to mine.

“So what does this thing do?” I asked, pointing to a monitor at the far end of the weather center.

He was all too happy to explain.

*   *   *

T
he day went by quickly and before I knew it, Asher was on the air, delivering his forecast for the six
PM
news. It was a typical San Diego forecast for this time of year. Temperatures in the mid seventies. Cooler at night. Residents liked to joke that people called it a heat wave when it went over seventy-five degrees—and a cold snap if it dropped under. As if blue skies and sunshine were considered a basic human right here in SoCal. And maybe they were.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Physically—from all my time pulling double-duty shifts at the station and the Holloway House—and mentally—from all the new work knowledge I'd crammed into my brain. I was sort of hoping Asher would let me off the hook for dinner—the idea of just crawling into my bed and watching eighties movies on Netflix while eating pizza delivery sounded pretty damn good right about now.

But, of course, that was just a fantasy. The second Asher got off set, he headed straight for me.

“You ready for that dinner, Batgirl?” he asked.

I groaned. “What if I begged for a bat check?”

“No way. We made a bat deal. I got to work early—”

“Um, you were still, like, three hours late.”

“—and, in return, you agreed to let me take you to dinner.”

“But I'm tired!”

He gave me a pointed look. “So was I when you woke me up.”

Touché. I sighed, realizing I was once again going to lose.

“Besides,” he added, “I made you look good today. Just look at Richard's face.” He jerked his head to the side and I glanced over. Sure enough, the news director was standing there, across the newsroom, a big smile on his face. He caught my eye and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“See?” Asher said. “He credits my presence here in the newsroom entirely to your awesomeness. That oughta be good for at least a three-course meal. Maybe four. After all, I've been pretty absent of late.”

“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands in defeat. “Dinner it is. But we have to do it now. I'm pretty sure by nine
PM
this Cinderella will turn back into a pumpkin. And trust me, it won't be pretty. Like drool in the corner of my mouth not pretty.”

Asher's eyes danced with victory. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “Do you want to meet me at my car in five?”

“I'll drive myself,” I replied. “Then I can just leave your house when we're done eating and go home.”

“Oh, we're not going to my house.”

I cocked my head. “We aren't? But you said . . . ?”

“That I was a master cook with a carne guisada recipe to die for?”

I nodded.

“Yeah. That was a lie. Truth is, that jalapeño scramble is pretty much the only trick in my wheelhouse. Other than that, I can't boil water.” He leaned down to the desk in front of him and scribbled something on a piece of paper, then pressed it into my hand. I looked down. It was an address for a place in Del Mar, a ritzy northern suburb on the beach.

“I'll see you there,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me before making a quick exit. Probably so I wouldn't have time to protest.

I sighed, then stuffed the piece of paper into my bag and
worked to gather the rest of my things before heading to my car.

Once I had gotten my stuff together, I stopped for a moment to look around the weather center. It was funny: When I'd walked in that morning, everything had seemed as if it belonged on some kind of alien spaceship. But now I could already identify a few of the radars and other monitors surrounding me. I also knew how to pull a forecast off the National Weather Center website and where I could gather information on incoming and outgoing tides.

I wasn't a meteorologist—not by a long shot. Hell, I wasn't even weathergirl caliber just yet. But it was a start. And a realization, too. That just like everything else in life that seemed out of reach, it was learnable, if you took it one step at a time. If you had a patient teacher.

Sure, I probably wasn't the most qualified person in the building to be given this job. But I was determined to prove that it hadn't been a mistake to give it to me. I would get Asher in line if it was the last thing I did. And I would become a great weather producer in the process. Then, if the worst were to happen, and he got sick of me and let me go, I would be able to parlay my new skills into a similar job at another station.

I would survive. As I always managed to do.

I got in my car and plugged the address he'd given me into my phone, then followed the GPS to the location listed. Del Mar was a little trek from where News 9 was located downtown and, as I sat in traffic, I wished I had asked Asher if we could have gone somewhere more local. But it was too late now.

As I grew closer to the destination, I felt a strange anticipation winding up inside of me. As tired as I was, I realized, I was also a little excited. Which was ridiculous, I knew. After all, this was just a meeting with my coworker. It certainly wasn't a date. Meaning there was no earthly reason I should have had butterflies dancing in my stomach at that moment. And my skin should certainly not have been humming with eagerness.

But all the logic in the world was lost on stomach and skin and no matter what I tried to do, I couldn't get either to chill the fuck out. To make matters worse, they eventually convinced my brain to join the party—by flashing me a visual of Asher this morning, clad in those damn boxer briefs of his.

Really, brain? Really? Aren't you supposed to be on my side here?

Finally, the GPS announced I had reached my destination. I looked up at the sign to see where it had taken me. My stomach sank.

The Del Mar Yacht Club.

Shit.

Of course Asher would take me here. This was exactly the kind of place a person like Asher would go. It was also exactly the opposite of the type of place that welcomed people like me. Especially people dressed like me. Let's just say I'd seen
Pretty Woman
in real life and trust me, it wasn't pretty.

I looked down at my outfit and cringed. What had possessed me to wear this today? It wasn't even thrift store chic. There was no way a place like this was going to let me in looking like I did. And it was going to be humiliation city when they publically shamed me and turned me away.

This was exactly why I needed to stay away from Asher to begin with. Like I'd said at the wedding. Different worlds. Hell, different solar systems.

I glanced out the window, wondering if I could just pull out now and flee for home. Tell Asher I got lost and didn't have his number to call to let him know. But the valet had already caught my eye and was waving me forward. I was trapped.

And so, against my better judgment, I pulled my beater of a Ford up alongside all the BMWs and Audis and Porsches. Then I killed the ignition. For a moment, I just remained in the car, not sure what to do, my heart throbbing in my chest. But then the driver's side door opened.

I turned, expecting to see the valet. But it was Asher,
grinning from ear to ear. “M'lady,” he quipped, offering me a hand.

I took it—what else could I do?—and allowed him to pull me out of the car. As my stomach launched into a full-on rave party—it was having a field day with all of this—I looked around bleakly at all the soft, pretty lights in the trees, all the thick, plush grass blanketing the lawn. The nicely dressed, perfectly coiffed people, walking into the nearby restaurant.

“I'm not sure I'm actually dressed to go in there,” I protested weakly.

“Please,” Asher replied, not missing a beat. “You should have seen some of the stuff I wore back when I was a teen and my parents would drag me here. There was one time I had these sliced-up, acid-wash jeans. I thought my mom was going to have a heart attack.” He laughed. “Yet they still let me in.”

“Yeah,” I protested. “But you were a kid. And a member.”

“And
you
are gorgeous,” he shot back. “Whatever you're wearing.”

My face burned. He had to stop saying things like that. We were coworkers. Coworkers!

“In any case,” he added. “We're not going in the restaurant.”

I let out a breath of relief. “We're not?”

“Of course not. I would never subject you to that disgusting display of opulence and excess. We, my dear, are going out there.”

Oh no. My body froze as my eyes followed his gesture, down the hill, toward the docks. My stomach wrenched as realization hit me with all the force of a ten-ton truck.

He didn't mean . . . He couldn't mean . . .

But of course he did.

“Sorry,” Asher said, not sounding anything close to apologetic. “Didn't I mention? We're having supper on the water. I reserved a boat this morning.”

I staggered backward, nearly managing to get myself run over by an approaching Porsche in the process. Asher
grabbed my hand just in time, jerking me back to safety. Suddenly, I was flush against him, breasts pressed against his chest. My heart pounded. He looked down at me with sparkling eyes, his hand still hooked at my hips.

“Watch it, Red,” he teased. “I'm told Chef Michaels has whipped up a delicious feast. It would be a shame if you got yourself run over before you had a chance to taste it.”

I stared up at him, not sure what to say. My mind was racing, my stomach twisting into knots—and not in a good way this time. I struggled to pull away from his grip. “I'm sorry,” I stammered. “I can't. I just—can't.”

He frowned, releasing me. I stumbled backward, this time taking care to avoid the incoming cars. “What do you mean you can't?”

I could feel my face flaming now. This was so embarrassing. So, so embarrassing. “Look,” I said. “The truth is, I'm not a very good swimmer.”

“Good thing we're not going swimming then.”

“But . . .” I glanced out over the dark water, my whole body vibrating with fear. “If it were to capsize . . .”

He laughed. “This isn't the
Titanic
, Red. I promise there are more than enough lifeboats on board. Besides, glacier season isn't for a couple months now.”