Under the Weatherman
My best friend ropes me into some pretty outlandish shenanigans, but tonight’s one for the record books. Up to her usual mischief, she dares me to hit up a random stranger at a bar—and tell him only lies.
I’d rather hide behind a book than flirt, but inventing a fictional narrative gives me the nerve to saunter up to a magazine-gorgeous blond and say, “Hey!”
When he turns his pretty green eyes on me, eyes framed by dark bookish glasses—my kryptonite—I panic.
“I was in your class with, uh—” I snap my fingers, hoping he’ll play along with some vague long-lost connection, out of politeness if nothing else.
At first, the sexy librarian only squints at me, then his camera-ready smile widens. “Lizzy Graham?”
Oh, my god. He’s not supposed to believe me. I want to bail, but a dare’s a dare.
As we catch up, I suspect Evan’s pranking me right back. I tell him I’m a zoologist who speaks Latin to pigs. He claims to be a TV weatherman from Indiana. Sure.
He’s funny and cute, and I wish I hadn’t promised to lie to him. I want him to know me. The real me. So when the bar closes, I come clean and, assuming we’re on the same page, invite him to my place.
When he doesn’t contact me for weeks afterwards, I feel like the dupe.
Just as I’m getting over the mortification, who should show up at my workplace as the new face of weather at six and eleven?
I might be frosty, but he’s even icier because somehow he’s only just discovered I’m not the person I said I was.
