Angus seemed to remember me and only barked once before inviting himself into my lap for a nap. Jen laughed and said not to read too much into it. “He’s always cold, so he’ll jump on anyone who sits still long enough.”
So much for feeling special.
Jen handed me a glass of wine and curled up on the opposite end of the couch from me. “So,” she said, “I was thinking of calling it The Rubbish Report. Whatcha think?”
“That’s better than anything I could come up with.” Which was the truth. I hadn’t been able to think of a single thing. Not that I’d really tried too hard. “One thing we absolutely have to discuss, though, is who we talk about.”
“You mean who’s free game and who’s off-limits? BK and I kind of covered that, but he said you and I should discuss the final points.”
I had a sip of wine and shifted a little to stretch out my knee. Angus resettled with a sigh and my hand scratched behind his ear, all on its own. “We get a lot of bands, actors, and actresses in for interviews. We absolutely can’t take the chance of alienating any of them.”
“If we follow how I did it in KC, ninety-five percent of the stories won’t involve anyone who’s actively working. So I don’t think that’ll be a problem. But to be safe, I’ll run them by you every morning and nix any you object to. There’s always plenty to use as backups.”
So, after all that build-up, we were done before the lasagna was.
And I wasn’t leaving before I got some.
Lasagna.
Minds out of the gutter, ladies. For Christ’s sake, she’s my fricking co-host. Thou shalt not dabble and all that.
Jensen popped up from her end of the couch and went into the kitchen. She called out, “Ten more minutes.” As she came back in with the wine bottle, she said, “And about another ten for it to cool. So, what do you want to talk about while we wait?” She refilled my glass without asking.
“I’m curious why you’d move here for a job offer without ever having met your co-host. So let’s talk about Jensen, the cheerleader-turned-radio-personality.”
She plopped back down into her couch-corner and pulled her knees up under her chin. My own knee twinged jealously.
She seemed to be caught in a stare at nothing, her eyes fixed on some unknown point as she sipped her wine and didn’t answer.
“Jen? Am I prying?”
She shook it off and smiled faintly. “Not at all. I was just trying to figure out where to start.”
“I find the beginning is usually a good spot.”
She rolled her eyes and smirked. “My parents thought they’d never have kids. So I was a late-life surprise. Once I graduated from college, they sold their house in Lenexa and retired to Phoenix to get away from the snow. I’ve been trying to get out of Kansas City ever since.”
“So working at Rock 108 in Vegas is just a stepping stone to Phoenix?”
She popped a brow. “Are you kidding? Las Vegas is a much bigger market, career-wise. My folks are only a couple hours away; it’s close enough.” She laughed softly. “Sorry, Tack. You’re stuck with me.”
And your little dog, too, I thought as Angus started the doggie-dreaming twitch on my lap.
I stayed around for the polite amount of time after dinner, although I was itching to leave halfway through my second helping. And before you go thinking I pigged out, Jensen brought it to me—like the wine, without asking—when she got her own second slice.
That–that, right there, is why I had to leave. She’s getting too damned comfortable. Not that I want her on edge, but Jesus! Am I that easily read? Or does she just tromp all over boundaries, no matter whose?
***
There’s not much to say about the beginning of the week; the first two days of The Rubbish Report were an enormous success, based on Jen’s Facebook feedback. And on the number of sponsors lining up to have their name added as Presented By. And damn her if she didn’t beat me to the punch again.
She sweet-talked the photo studio into emailing her the new photo so she could plaster it all over the place online. They even couriered over her box of black-and-whites on Tuesday morning.
What’s that, you asked? What about mine?
I had to pick them up after work.
Which is why I was juggling the flimsier-than-a-cheesy-Christmas-shirtbox of photos, the rest of my travel mug of coffee, a package of black Sharpies, and my door badge, all while trying to avoid the swathe of muck all over the sidewalk from the sprinklers.
I have no idea why the stupid things were even on—it’s been raining off and on for the last two days, turning anything that wasn’t paved into a muddy quagmire. This is the desert and water’s practically a form of currency here. You’d think someone would remember that and flip the switch on the sprinkler timer.