Chapter 8: The Weather Ball

All day I kept seeing the nine thousand dollars leave our account for a ring that wasn't on my hand.

Cillian said we should go to the ball anyway and watch what Trevor did with his face.

The Channel 6 Weather Ball was held in a hotel ballroom with four hundred chairs and a stage shaped like a cloud.

I wore black, because I wasn't giving Trevor green.

Cillian wore a charcoal suit he had borrowed from his foreman, and it was loose in the shoulders.

He tugged at the collar the whole way up the steps.

Trevor was onstage when we walked in, in a tux, handing a giant check to a children's charity.

He saw us from the stage, and his smile didn't change at all.

He could say anything with that face and make the room believe it.

We found our table near the back, beside the station manager and the morning anchor.

The anchor was a bright, brisk woman.

She shook Cillian's hand. "So you're the boyfriend. Trevor said you might come."

"Did he say anything else?"

"He said you were temporary."

"Did he," Cillian said, and sat.

I felt him lean toward me.

He put one arm along the back of my chair and his mouth close to my ear.

Anyone watching would have thought he was saying something sweet.

"I've been thinking about that hoodie," he said, very low.

"What about it?"

"About how badly I wanted it off you."

My whole body went hot.

"When we leave," he said, "I'm going to take this dress off you slowly."

His breath was warm on my ear.

"Then I'm going to find out what you sound like when nobody's watching and I'm not stopping."

I picked up my water glass and put it down again without drinking.

"Cillian."

"Yes?"

"There's a station manager on my left."

"He can't hear me," Cillian said.

He moved his hand to the bare skin at my shoulder and left it there while the manager discussed the silent auction.

I did not hear any of it.

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