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I hefted one up to the table’s surface. She leapt at it, untucking the top and pulling out shirts.

“How, exactly, am I at fault for you being late?” I asked as I lifted the next box.

Her gaze cut up to me from under her lashes, her cheekbones tinting pink. “You know how.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to need a detailed explanation. Or perhaps a demonstration.”

“Are you… flirting with me at a con? I mean… are you flirting with me, period?” Her lips twitched, caught between shock and pleasure, not sure which way they should turn.

“I suppose I am.”

Her hair had fallen down from the hastily pulled-up bun. I reached to tuck it behind her ear, only to find my hand lightly slapped.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re supposed to be falling for Madison.”

“I don’t care about Madison.”

“The thousands of people here to see you interact with her do. And they are why you have a radio show at all.”

That was a little cutting for her. When I inspected her face more closely, there was a tightness and coldness I wasn’t accustomed to seeing there.

She was likely just stressed: running late, having to get the merch set up, making sure all the talent made it and were where they needed to be at the right time.

Still, it needled at me, like there was something I wasn’t quite seeing.

As she growled at a stack of bookmarks that drifted off the edge of the table, though, it was clear that this was not the time to press.

I ducked to gather them before she could do so, setting them in the holder she had set out.

“Thanks,” she said, exhaling hard. “But you need to go to your table.” She pointed behind me, making me turn to see, much to my horror, that I also had a cardboard cutout of me. I wasn’t even sure where she’d gotten the picture.

“I’m not taking kissy-faced selfies in front of that.”

That got a snort out of her.

“They’re mostly for the fans to take pictures with. But they’re also going to want to take pictures with you.”

“Is this your way of trying to tell me that I need to smile and be pleasant?”

“God, no.”

My brows shot up. “No?”

“No, they’re totally going to want you to be exactly how you are on your show: cold, clinical, maybe a little rude.”

“You want me to be myself?”

“No. I want you to be who you are on your show.”

“That is who I am.”

Maggie’s head tipped to the side. “Is it?” She reached out toward me, straightening my tie. “Or is it who you like to project because it’s safer than to admit that you’re actually really kind underneath all those guards of yours?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”