by Brandy Ayers
About the Author
Brandy Ayers is a writer of erotic romance. Or romantic erotica, depending on how you look at it. She has been telling stories in one form or another since she was a child and decided her English / Irish heritage was boring. Instead, for a 4th grade class genealogy assignment, she weaved a tale of mystery and intrigue about her great, great grandpa chief of the Navajo tribe. No one bought it. Brandy lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, son, daughter, neurotic boxer, and Satan worshipping cat.
Find her:
BrandyAyers.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BrandyAyersAuthor/
Twitter: @BrandyWritesSex
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Also by Brandy Ayers
The Arrangement:
The mind is a tricky thing. No one knows that better than Michelle O’Brian due to maladaptive daydreaming, an undiagnosed disorder that makes HER question the line between reality and fantasy. Forced to change careers after her goal of making a mark in the journalism world implodes, she finds herself unable to stop fantasizing about her new boss. And every other man she comes across.
Her uncontrollable daydreams are a problem at work. Not even an orgasm inducing visit to her sexy as hell friend, Russ Seko, can stem the need for her mind to wander. But as it becomes clear that Russ wants more, and her workplace flirting may not be all pretend, things get out of hand. Fast.
Coming Soon!
Standby – WQUZ News Book 1
Mira Simpson has a plate so full it's overflowing. A busy career as the crime reporter at WQUZ in Pittsburgh keeps her hopping with ten-hour work days. Caring for her ill father takes up the rest of her time. In the two years since his diagnosis with early onset Alzheimer's disease, Mira hasn't had time for a social life, certainly not for a love life. Add in an overzealous fan making trouble for her, and Mira is in a constant state of stress.
As if all that wasn't enough, now Chris Noble, the infuriating, and infuriatingly hot, reporter from rival news station WBDD has taken over the open crime reporter position. The two clash heads in the field. But even while he is pissing her off like no other can, Noble is also turning her on. As Mira begins to let her guard down, she learns there might be more to Noble than meets the eye. Can Mira learn to trust her biggest rival? Or will she continue to put her heart on standby?
Sneak Peek: Standby
Chapter 1
“Noble! What the heck was that?” Blood boiled in Mira Simpson’s veins as she seethed with rage. Her perfectly styled, long blonde hair flapped behind her as she stalked toward the cocky son of a bitch. A lesson in balance, her slim legs were perfectly steady in five-inch Louboutins. The shoes may have been about three years old, but they still imbued her with a sense of confidence. Despite the extra height they added to her short frame, she still had to tilt her head back to glare into the arrogant brown eyes of her enemy.
“Whatever do you mean, princess?” Chris Noble had some nerve. Playing innocent like he had no clue what she was talking about.
“Don’t you princess me, you overrated playboy. That was my interview. I’m the one who spent all day tracking that boy’s mother down and talking her into going on camera.” She thrust her finger into his chest with enough force to push him back an inch. “Then you come waltzing up. Flirt for five seconds and horn your way in on my exclusive.”
His responding shrug and look of amusement made her want to punch his pretty face.
“Shouldn’t have done the interview on her porch, then I wouldn’t have been able to walk up and work my magic.” A devilish smile played on his lush lips.
His undeniable hotness pissed her off even more. It took an enormous amount of willpower to rein in her body’s reaction to him. Dark brown eyes that held enough mystery to drive her crazy, silky chestnut hair that flopped in that infuriatingly effortless way men achieved without trying, and a lean, tall body that screamed ‘I used to play soccer.’ The only thing she wanted more than to rip his cheap ass suit from his body and attack him with her mouth, was to strangle him with his ugly pink tie.
“That’s where someone shot her son, d-bag. Obviously that’s where the interview should be. At the very least, professional courtesy should’ve been to let me finish and then approach her with your own questions. Not shove your mic in her face so you could catch the tail-end of her answer to my question.” She took another step into him, pushing aside the heat invading her belly at his proximity and clinging to her anger, funneling it into her eyes to shoot him the kind of look she knew made men wither. “Try doing your own work for once. Maybe if you put half as much time into your stories as you do your hair you’d stop losing to me at the Emmys.” Turning on the ball of her foot, she tried to calm her fury while striding away.
“As always, it’s a pleasure seeing you, Simpson.” Something about his tone reminded Mira of a baseball player winding up for the pitch. “Should happen more now that we’re working the same beat.”
That stopped her in her tracks.
“What?” The little control she’d gained over her anger dissolved as she turned back to see his smug face.
“Oh, you hadn’t heard yet? I figured the good news would’ve made it through the grapevine by now. I’m now officially on the crime beat, too. So I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” That self-satisfied smile infuriated her, one eyebrow quirked up, almost daring her to slap the silly off his face.
“I thought you said you’re above the crime beat. Politics were more your speed.” Every one of her sources said he had merely been filling in on her beat and would be back to the safety of city hall as soon as the powers that be at WBDD found a replacement. Pure dread churned in her stomach, flinging acid into her throat at the thought of having to see the arrogant jerk every day. Well, so much for lunch. Her stress-induced heartburn would mean no food except for Tums for the remainder of the night.
“I did. But then my boss made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” He closed the ten foot or so gap between them, a ghost of a smile playing on his face. The obvious pleasure he derived from her discomfort infuriated her.
Their interactions were few and far between since he had been hired at the competing station across town a year ago. But each time they ended up on the same assignment, it was the same story. One thing or another would set them off and before you knew it insults were flinging back and forth, Noble looking more amused by the minute, and Mira struggling to contain her contempt for him. Apparently now she would have their borderline hurtful banter to look forward to everyday. The thought exhausted her.
Once no more than a few inches separated them, Noble bent his head closer to her ear, whispering, “Plus, the thought of seeing you all pissed off like this on a regular basis, well I couldn’t pass that up. I like how riled up your body gets just being in my presence.”
The low seductive tone to his voice did things to her traitorous body. Her skin tingled where his warm, minty breath brushed it. Beneath her silk blouse, her nipples contracted into tiny buds. Her heart picked up its pace by two additional heartbeats. She wasn’t sure what angered her more, his insufferable attitude or her body’s reaction to him. Attractive men were a constant in the news business. Between the well-groomed reporters, built photographers, and sophisticated anchors, you couldn’t escape the good looking men in this industry. But none could pull the immediate carnal reaction from her like Noble.
Her chest grazed his as it expanded to take in another breath. She tried to quiet her body’s silent plea for him to touch her. “Your presence does nothing to my body.” Liar.
He shifted his lips a fraction of an inch so they lightly traced the shell of her ear. “That’s not what the flush creeping up your chest is telling me.” He spun around and sauntered back to his live truck. “Have a good day, Simpson.”
She turned to her own news vehicle, chest still heaving, and if the heat burning her cheeks was any indication, the blush had spread to her face now.
> Rufus, her photographer, stood from the driver’s seat of the large news van. “You need me to take him out, Mira?”
“Yes, please! Can you make it slow and painful?”
He laughed a loud, belly-shaking laugh. At least fifteen years her senior, she loved the furry little bear of a man she worked with day in and day out. His editing skills rivaled no one, and they’d been churning out high quality stories since their boss, Michelle, had decided to pair them up last year. But beyond being a good partner out in the field, he was funny and genuinely nice in a way you couldn’t always find in journalists.
After recovering from his moment of hilarity, he leveled her with a serious stare and cut straight to the chase. “Just so you know, I’m serious. He, or anyone else, ever gives you trouble, let me know. You don’t live and work in a city this size your whole life without knowing where to dump the bodies.”
His kind words helped to ease some of her irritation. “Thanks, Rufus. I appreciate it.” Slapping his back, she turned to the task at hand. She had no time to waste, with roughly an hour of footage to wade through before she could write a story powerful enough to bring tears to her viewers’ eyes.
Thankfully, Noble had only shown up for the last half of their interview. She’d still have some fresh bits he’d missed out on. Those would be where she concentrated her efforts. She hated nothing more than running the exact same sound-bites as her competitors. Sometimes it couldn’t be avoided, when officials gave press conferences, or when only a few people in the tight-lipped neighborhoods were willing to talk to media.
But today had been a journalist’s dream come true. A verbal argument broke out between two neighbors over a woman they were both sleeping with. It escalated until one of the men opened fire on the other. Jay, an eleven-year-old boy, had been working on his bicycle on his front porch when the shooting started. Two bullets struck him, one through his upper arm, the other grazing his head. That was two days ago. He’d been fighting for his life ever since. Last night word came out that he’d make it, but would be recovering in the hospital for weeks.
A nurse tipped Mira off that the little boy’s mom, Ellen, had left the hospital for the first time in days to shower and grab some things before returning to her son’s side. Mira approached the woman alone, no camera in sight. Ellen had been hesitant at first; the mother just wanted to get back to her son. But Mira knew they had very little insurance coverage, and would be facing some hefty medical bills. A story on the six o’clock news would go a long way to help with that. People always wanted to help when it came to injured kids, and Mira had no doubt she could get this family help.
Of course, Mira’s motives weren’t totally selfless. This would be an amazing story. One she could submit for award season. One that would get major social media play, maybe even go national. It was a win-win all around. Eventually, Ellen relented and agreed to do the interview.
Noble’s appearance was merely a setback. Mira had watched a few of his pieces over the past year. He didn’t have anywhere near her storytelling abilities. Sure, he held a certain amount of charm and charisma, with an innate ability to put people at ease with his smooth voice. But he didn’t put the effort into crafting a story; he merely presented the facts, little emotion behind his words. Obviously he didn’t hold the passion for storytelling that Mira did.
Opening her laptop, the words began to flow. Unshed tears burned behind her eyes as she watched the distressed mother crying over the memory of finding her son on the porch, blood pouring from his tiny body. Mira fought to keep the tears back. She hadn’t let them fall during the interview, and she wouldn’t now, either.
If she had one fault as a reporter, it would be her tendency to get too emotionally involved with her stories. Many nights she found herself sobbing in bed, spent from a day of delving into the darkest corners of humanity. Murderers, rapists, child abusers—she’d reported about all of them. The things she’d heard during court testimony or read in criminal paperwork haunted her. On those nights, she went to her demo reel and watched all the stories she’d done that brought good to the city she loved—follow-up stories on the community rallying around each other, normal citizens taking responsibility for their neighborhoods and making a difference, and the amazing police officers who risked their lives every day to serve and protect.
This would be one of those stories.
Jay’s mother, Ellen, and Mira had bonded during their time together today, and the sweet woman promised to keep her updated on Jay’s recovery. A fund had been set up in the boy’s name at a local bank with the hope of raising donations to pay for his medical needs. Mira would be plastering the information all over her story.
Biting on her thumb knuckle, she thought about all the help the family needed, and her anxiety ramped up another notch. WQUZ was a small station, and as much as she hated to admit it, she knew not as many people would be watching her tonight as they would Noble. She wouldn’t want to work for WBDD. They worked their staff to the bone and compromised good reporting for fast reporting, but she couldn’t deny Jay’s chances at donations multiplied if Noble had the donation fund information.
“Dammit.” Just thinking about talking to the prick again made her blood boil. Huffing out a frustrated breath, she jotted down the bank account information on a scrap of paper, and folded it in half so aggressively the crease could cut glass. “Rufus, I’ll be right back. The script is in for approval but you can probably start laying it down,” she called into the back of the truck to her coworker.
“Okay, where you going?”
“To do something I’ll probably regret,” she mumbled.
Stalking a block down the street to where Noble and his photog were set up, she tried to steady her nerves. Blood pounded through her veins, and doubt wiggled in her mind. It went against her nature to help out a competitor, but this was for the good of a little boy.
Noble leaned against the state-of-the-art news van, one foot propped on the tire, eyes focused on his phone, and a toothpick rolling between his lips. He must’ve heard the clacking of her heels on the pavement because he looked up before she got too close. His eyes narrowed and mouth twisted into a smirk. “Can I help you with something, princess?”
God, she wanted to smack him. Greater good, greater good, greater good. She tried to repeat the mantra to herself until her hatred of the man subsided, but it didn’t really work. Such a condescending jerk. Not being taken seriously because of her gender and looks came with the territory, but for some reason it irked her even more coming from this douche-nozzle. Did he treat all female reporters like this, or just her?
Pulling in one more deep breath, she made an effort to keep her voice neutral. “Look, before you got here a neighbor told me they’d opened an account for donations for Jay’s medical bills. I just wanted to make sure you have the information.” Arm stretched out, she thrust the piece of paper in his direction.
Narrowing his eyes at the note, Noble refused to take it from her.
“I didn’t poison it, promise. I left my cyanide at home today.” The struggle to keep her voice even burned in her throat. Greater good.
“Why would you give me that?” Confusion etched on his face and in his words. He stood from his position against the van and closed the distance between them. The toothpick rolled to the opposite corner of his mouth, drawing Mira’s gaze to his lips. The paper crinkled as it made contact with his chest.
She didn’t like the way his eyes roamed over her face, as though he could find the answer to some riddle if he just stared at her hard enough. Resisting the urge to tuck her hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she had quashed in her early reporting days, she met his gaze head on. “They don’t have a lot of money, and even with insurance their medical bills are going to be insane.” She pulled in a deep, steadying breath. Astronomical medical bills were something she knew all too much about. “They could use all the help they can get. Your having the information means more people will donate. Besides, no matter
how much I despise the reporting practices of your station, you aren’t a bad journalist.” She plastered a fake smile on her face.
“Man, anyone ever tell you you’re a horrible liar?”
The deep sigh spilling from her mouth was automatic. “Yes. Several people.” Her irritation with him reached its boiling point.
That damn toothpick kept rolling between his plump, pink lips, making it impossible to ignore his mouth. She’d never seen a guy with lips that pink before. It made her want to kiss them until they were swollen and red.
No. Where did that come from?
Unleashing her frustration, she shoved the paper into his chest, flattening her palm against the hard muscles under his suit. She fought to keep her fingers from curling to grasp the material. “Listen, use it, don’t use it. I don’t give a hoot.”
She went to move her hand, but before she could, his own much larger one covered it, holding her in place.
“If you wanted to touch me, princess, you should’ve just asked.” His hands were rougher than she would expect. She’d assumed he’d be one of those pretty men that got manicures and avoided manual labor at all costs. But the callouses scratched against the back of her hand.
