The Daring Storm Chaser (Love in a Storm #2)

Chapter 1

Marjorie

As my brother, Colby, and I walk to the door of the studio, I scroll through email messages on my phone and shoot responses to three of them in under thirty seconds.

I’ve been Colby’s manager ever since he became the on-air meteorologist for Rise and Shine, Los Angeles. And I’m proud to say there’s no one better suited for the job. I take multitasking to a professional level.

I’m just about ready to respond to email #4 when we reach the door. Colby freezes in his tracks, and I nearly run into him.

“What’s the problem?” I ask, looking up from my phone.

Colby’s eyebrows knit together. “Can’t you cancel this stupid photoshoot?”

“No can do, big brother. You’re contractually obligated.”

He sighs. “Fine, but let’s reschedule. Seriously, Marjorie. I’m not in the mood today.”

I shake my head and place a hand on his lower back to nudge him through the door. “We’re not rescheduling it.”

He digs in his heels, refusing to budge. “Why not?”

I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms. “Because you’ll never be in the mood. We’ll just be right back in this same situation on any other day. So, suck it up, and get it over with.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, stepping inside the studio. “But absolutely no props. Tell them, okay?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Whatever you say, diva.”

His scowl deepens. “If the photographer tries to make me pose with a fucking umbrella, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Can’t be held responsible, huh? Well, what else is new?

I love my brother. I really do. And most days, I enjoy my job. But every now and then, I want to throttle him. I know he doesn’t mean to, but he takes me for granted sometimes. I do everything for him, down to the smallest tasks. I maintain his calendar, monitor his social media feeds, and keep his refrigerator stocked. I even make sure he doesn’t run out of toothpaste, for crying out loud. The man would be helpless without me.

The only thing I can’t do is serve as a body double for him. If I could, I would. It would make both our lives easier; he wouldn’t have to do the things he hates, and I wouldn’t have to listen to him bitch and moan about it.

Alas, he’s tall and lean, not to mention a man —and I’m none of the above. So, he has no choice but to handle on-air appearances and photoshoots himself.

I nod a greeting to the makeup artist as she ushers Colby away to prepare him for the camera. I return to my never-ending string of emails, quickly triaging them, and responding to the ones that can be handled immediately. The more challenging ones will have to wait for later because I have a feeling Colby is going to need lots of handholding this morning.

Sure enough, he’s already tugging on the collar of his shirt before he’s even stepped in front of the camera. His face is a storm cloud, and he’s staring at the photographer as though he could shoot bolts of lightning at him from his eyeballs. He’s not making any effort at all to hide the fact that he’d rather be anywhere else.

I grab a bottle of water from my tote bag, tell the photographer to give me a minute, and step onto the set.

Handing the bottle to Colby, I hiss, “You’re supposed to look like the grumpy meteorologist , but right now, your face is giving serial killer vibes. Rein it in a bit.”

If anything, his eyebrows knit even more tightly together as he takes a swig of water. Well, I tried.

My brother’s always been a bit of a grump, but lately, he seems downright miserable. It’s so incongruous with sunny California that it works, at least from a professional standpoint. The public adores the grumpy meteorologist act. People throughout America have coffee mugs and t-shirts with Colby’s face on them.

Little do they know that it’s not an act at all.

“How do you feel about props?” the photographer asks him. “Perhaps an umbrella?”

Shit.

“Absolutely not,” Colby snarls.

“Let’s try a few with a smile?” the photographer suggests.

Double shit.

Color is creeping into Colby’s cheeks, and I know he’s about three seconds from throwing his hands up and storming off the set. I quickly step forward to diffuse the situation.

Flashing a friendly grin at the photographer, I say, “Colby doesn’t smile in photos. He’s known throughout the country as the grumpy meteorologist. That’s his brand. The studio should have informed you.”

“I just thought—”

“Well, don’t,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and cheerful. “Viewers love his grumpy face, and Rise and Shine, Los Angeles has built a whole marketing campaign around it for years. So, let’s just stick with what works, okay?”

The photographer frowns. “Maybe we could get a few with him wearing sunglasses and flip-flops?”

I glance at Colby and see that his face is now the color of a ripe tomato. If this shoot goes on much longer, he really will lose it. He’s on the verge now.

Better to shut it down. “You know what? I think we have more than enough pictures. Thank you for your time today.”

“No problem,” the man grumbles, packing up his gear.

I march over to my brother. “It really wouldn’t kill you to smile every now and then,” I whisper under my breath. “We live and work in paradise. Be grateful.”

“I’d rather be somewhere with actual weather,” he responds. “In fact, I’ve been thinking—”

He’s been thinking? Does he want to move?

“Well, well, well…” a voice calls out from behind us. “If it isn’t Colby Raynes, Mr. Grumpy McGrump Face himself.”

That voice…

My heart leaps into my throat, as it always does whenever Oscar Metzer is nearby. What’s he doing in California?

I turn to glare at my brother’s ex-best friend. Can he tell how my heart rate kicks into triple time at the sound of his voice? Despite knowing that he’s bad news, my stupid heart betrays me every time he’s in the room.

My mind recognizes him for what he is—a snake—but my heart’s never gotten the memo.

I swallow around the lump in my throat and feign bravado. “Grumpy McGrump Face? What are you, Oscar? Twelve?”

Colby folds his arms across his chest. “What brings you to L.A., Oz?”

“I’m here to consult on a climate-change disaster flick. You know the type,” Oz says with a grin. “Hailstorms, tornadoes, city-killer hurricanes. That sort of thing.”

“Let me guess,” Colby says, his tone dripping with disgust. “There’s one sensational storm scene after the other until a sexy scientist wearing a bikini beneath her lab coat saves the day?”

Oz grins. “Yep. And they’re paying me a king’s ransom. It’s sort of funny that they didn’t just hire you. You’re already on the studio’s payroll, after all. But I suppose they wanted someone with real-life experience.”

Colby scowls. “We both know I’m the better forecaster.”

“School was a long time ago,” Oz says. “While you’ve been here in sunny California, I’ve been tracking supercells and tornadoes across the country. I have real-world experience that you just can’t compete with, buddy.”

“I’m not your buddy.”

No good can come of this conversation.

I yank on Colby’s arm. “Ignore him. We have better things to do.” To my relief, he follows me to the exit without resistance.

We’ve almost reached the door when Oz calls out to Colby. “There’s a once-in-a-century storm system brewing right now. It’s going to explode like a powder keg when it crosses the Mississippi River in two days.”

Colby’s steps falter, and I can’t help but groan. “Ignore him,” I plead again. But Oz knows my brother, and he knows which buttons to push.

“It’ll leave a path of destruction all the way from the Great Plains to the Atlantic Coast,” Oz continues. “But don’t worry. While I’m filming footage right in the heart of the storm, you’ll be safe and sound in front of your green screen.”

Colby’s body trembles with anger as he turns to face Oz. “I’m the better forecaster, and I’m going to prove it.”

Oh, no. I don’t like where this conversation is headed one bit.

I tug on my brother’s arm again, harder, but he doesn’t move.

Oz smirks. “Is that so? How?”

“I’ll chase the storm, too,” Colby says. “The man with the best recorded footage of the bigger storm wins.”

Gasping, I shake my head. “Colby, that’s stupid. It’s unnecessarily risky to chase tornadoes, and you’re needed here in the studio for—”

“We’ll need an impartial judge,” Oz says, rubbing his chin and ignoring me. It’s really pissing me off that they’re both acting like I’m not even in the room.

“Kane Charming,” they say in unison.

Oz chuckles. “It’s been a long time since we agreed on something.”

“Kane’s the obvious choice,” Colby says, shrugging.

“Game on,” Oz says. “May the best man win.”

“I will,” Colby growls.

I want to scream at them that they’re both behaving like sorry excuses for men, but I bite my tongue and push Colby toward the door again. This time, he obliges.

As I follow Colby out the door, I can’t resist one more glance at Oz. Our eyes meet and a flirty smile dances on his lips. “Nice to see you, Jori.”

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. “I hate it when you call me that.”

His face stretches into a cocky grin. “No, you don’t.”

No, I don’t. But I should .

I really, really should.