by Jacie Floyd
Stunned, she reared back to confirm her misfortune. The shock in his eyes mirrored hers.
Under cover of the applause, they objected in unison, “Not you!”
The following Saturday night, Max arrived on Annabel’s front porch in Hyde Park. With his favorite cameraman in tow, he looked around at one of Cincinnati’s oldest and stodgiest neighborhoods. Sturdy brick houses lined the quiet, residential street. Subdued shutters bordered windows with overflowing flower boxes. Tidy yards sported geometric mower grids. Traditional, conservative, established, and settled. All things Max preferred to avoid.
Grinding his teeth, he cursed his current circumstances and the unapologetic people responsible for it. If given the chance, he’d banish meddlesome teenage girls to a world without cell phones or teenage boys.
He’d blast Tess Hartley to an unending life of flat hair, tabloid journalism, and bad ratings.
He’d send all judgmental, uninteresting women to an island far, far away, where they could bore one another to death with their rules, restrictions, and lack of original thoughts.
And he’d reserve a special circle of hell composed of angry advertisers, prolonged power outages, and drunken weathermen for Charley Asherton, the usually-sensible station manager who had included Max’s name in a pool of eligible bachelors for Let’s Talk without notifying him first.
How he’d let Tess and Charley talk him into participating in such an asinine waste of time, Max couldn’t explain. He’d thought it a joke when he received the message to appear for the first-round interviews. But he hadn’t stood a chance against the innocent wiles and harmless demeanor of the young girl who singled him out. If he’d known she’d matched him up with Ms. Frostbite of Cincinnati, he would have pulled a no-show for the actual program.
Tess would pay for this. Due to their brief, steam-up-the-sheets, personal history half-a-dozen years ago, he’d expected her to let him out of his arranged date. When a conspiratorial smile and the promise of a future favor hadn’t worked, he explained that Annabel didn’t want to go out with him any more than he wanted to go out with her.
The ratings-minded diva just laughed and insisted he keep his part of the bargain. She’d even had the nerve to goad him over the fact that he’d finally met a woman who didn’t worship at his feet. Tess had also suggested he look on winning Annabel over as a challenge—one the show would pay for and record—as the “relationship” unfolded. Relationship, hell. Disaster was more like it. And Tess had licked her glossy lips over the possibility.
Ever conscious of the camera, the reporter in Max erased the scowl and put on his game face. He shot the sleeves of his suit into place, then smoothed his hair and straightened his frigging tie.
“Quit primping, Casanova, you look fine,” Roger said from behind him. He lifted the video-camera to his eye. “Now, ring the bell. No, wait. The doorknocker seems more forceful, more masculine. Use that.”
“More masculine.” Max snorted but banged the knocker as instructed. “Masculinity’s wasted on Annabel. Why do smart women like her favor those limp-wristed sensitive types who drink lattes and go to poetry readings?”
“Why do you care what kind of men she likes?”
“I don’t. I’m just saying, she’s not my type.”
“Yeah, I can see why the combination of smart, nice, gorgeous, and talented wouldn’t work for you,” the cameraman muttered.
When the door swung open, Max faced the beaming teenager who’d gotten him into this mess.
“You’re here!” Carly clapped her hands.
Despite his annoyance, Max grinned at her enthusiasm. “Hey, kid. How’s it going?”
She peered over his shoulder to the street, then leaned out the door to view the driveway. His Jeep Cherokee elicited a frown. “Where’s the limo?”
With the Porsche in the shop, he’d been tempted by the station’s offer of transportation, but he hated that kind of fancy crap. Besides, he and Annabel weren’t two pimply-faced, sweaty-palmed teenagers on the way to the prom. “I prefer to drive myself.”
Carly planted her hands on her hips. “But what about what Anna prefers?”
“When we talked yesterday, I asked her if she wanted to show off with a car and driver.” He shrugged. “She said she didn’t care.”
“Well, if you put it that way, what else could she say?” She glared at him with disapproval. “Besides, I care. I want this to be so special for her.”
“Maybe next time, kid.” Of course, there would be no such event. The terms of the show indicated he could dictate when and where they went on their second date, if he wanted to see her again. In a rare moment of agreement, he and Annabel had decided this would be a one-shot deal. She would have to be the one to break the news to Little Ms. Blue Eyes here.
Carly accepted the disappointment with a grudging sigh. “Come on in, then. Anna’s almost ready.”
He stepped across the threshold of the Morgan home, suppressing the urge to sneeze. The place smelled like a damn flower shop. Fresh roses decorated a table in the foyer. Potpourri sat in little dishes around the living room. They probably even sprayed the air with floral perfume.
In about two minutes, he’d break out in hives from the cloying scent combined with the rampant middle-class-values decor. Family pictures lined the mantle in the living room. Knick-knacks rested on frilly lace things. He’d bet his Porsche that coasters bloomed automatically under every beverage.
Structured, neat, and fragrant, a reflection of Annabel herself.
Everything in the house whispered its good taste in monotonous neutrals. Nice, he supposed, if he went in for this sort of Boy Meets World, mom, and apple-pie hominess.
Which he didn’t.
Not that he had any reason to dislike sitcom-perfect domesticity. But growing up without a mother present, he’d never experienced it. This whole scene existed as the polar opposite of his childhood and adulthood. Both had teemed with loud and boisterous chaos.
He’d never lived anywhere that remotely resembled this house or neighborhood, and he’d never dated a woman with as little fire and flash as Annabel.
Roger trailed him inside. “Would you go out and come back in again? The lighting in here isn’t what I expected.”
“Forget it,” Max said. “We’re not staging anything or doing any retakes.”
“If you’re willing to settle for a pasty image that makes you look like one of The Walking Dead, fine by me.”
Annabel’s stepdaughter chewed on her thumbnail and creased her forehead as she eyed Roger from head to sneaker. Max empathized with her concerns about the two-hundred-twenty-pound free spirit sporting a ponytail, eyebrow piercing, forearm tattoos, scruffy jeans, and a concert T-shirt. He attempted to set her at ease. “Roger’s the chaperone-slash-shooter for tonight. Even though he’s misguided enough to worship the Dave Matthews Band instead of real rock ‘n’ roll, he’s harmless when he’s not obsessing about things like camera angles and lighting.”
“If you say so.” Carly took a small step back, as if reluctant to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Please take a seat in the living room. Anna said to offer you something to drink and let her know when you got here.”
A footstep at the top of the stairs alerted Max to his date’s presence before he could decline the offer. In spite of himself, he watched Annabel descend.
A nervous smile flickered and softened her expression before it dimmed and faded into the more familiar lines of stern disapproval. And he hadn’t even done anything to annoy her yet. That he knew of.
Roger stepped forward. He adjusted the camera to zoom in and capture her entrance.
Waiting at the foot of the stairs, Max assessed her appearance. She’d reverted to full-on Ice-Princess mode. Black suit jacket buttoned up to her chin, and skirt hem hanging down past her knees. Sensible, boxy looking shoes. Hair slicked back so tightly at the nape of her neck he was surprised her eyes didn’t cross.
“Anna, I thought you were going to wear y
our hair down.” Carly’s artless comment inserted a drop of sweetness into the awkward moment.
Annabel smoothed her fingers over the sides of her hair, as if to harness any rebellious strands that dared to escape from their prison. “I’m more comfortable with it up.”
“You look gorgeous.” Roger panned the camera between the woman and girl. He nudged Max in the ribs, then pulled back to record Max and Annabel’s first greeting. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous? Give her a little kiss.”
Max’s gaze skimmed over Annabel’s body again. The classy, understated style suited her. Too prim and proper for my taste. Although the suit did hug her figure nicely. The slit up one side of her skirt showed an enticing bit of shapely leg and thigh when she walked. And that mouth with the peek-a-boo smile playing around the edges almost begged for a kiss.
But the expression of alarm that crossed her face sure didn’t. Or the backpedaling she employed as he reached for her.
“Oh, my.” She fluttered her fingers like crazed bats. “I guess I’m not very good on this side of the camera.”
“Just pretend I’m not here,” Roger said as if it would be possible to overlook a supersized gorilla with a forty-thousand-dollar camera glued to his face.
“Then quit trying to direct everything,” Max told him. “Just let things happen. And don’t worry,” he said to Annabel. “I’ll make him stay ten paces behind us at all times.”
“No, no, he’s fine. He’s just doing his job. Getting a taste of my own medicine will make me more sympathetic to my subjects in the future.” She flashed the cameraman an elusive smile.
She excluded Max from the offering of goodwill. Okay, he got the message. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You ready to go?”
“Yes.” She turned to retrieve some kind of flimsy wrap from the closet. “Do you know where we’re going?”
“Nope. I was only told where and when to show up—and what to wear.” He pulled at the knot on his necktie again. Damn thing. He hated having to wear one on his day off.
“We have a reservation at Ernesto’s at six.”
Ernesto’s. The kind of restaurant Max tended to dodge. A stuffy, over-priced, pretentious place in Mt. Adams that served prissy little portions of nouvelle cuisine. Sighing, he resigned himself to the choice and tried not to yawn.
“From there, we’ll go to the symphony. I hope you like Wagner.”
He chuckled, assuming she was kidding. But when he checked, her expression revealed nothing but seriousness. “Wagner? Really?”
“His music’s quite stimulating. My husband and I used to have season tickets for the symphony. I gave them up when he—” She stopped and bit her lip. “I gave them up a few years ago.”
The symphony. Stimulating? Ri-ight. She must be older than he guessed. What decade had she been born in anyway? Oh, well, maybe he could catch up on his sleep.
And he’d given up his poker night for this.
Get Meet Your Mate now!
Acknowledgments
My most important resource is the community of writers surrounding me. This includes all of the inspiring and talented women of The Ruby-Slippered Sisterhood, The Pixie Chicks, The Lucky 13s, and The Golden Network. I am so grateful to have all of these talented and supportive women in my world.
Special thanks to my daughter Sarah. I could not have accomplished this without her technical expertise. In 2013, she urged me to consider self-publishing my manuscripts. In 2014, she almost single-handedly made it happen. In 2015, we’re still going strong.
Thank you to my son Evan, for sharing my love of writing and always making me laugh.
Additional thanks to editor-extraordinaire Annie Oortman, mega-talented cover designer Kim Killion of The Killion Group, and excellent Beta Reader Donna S.
A special thanks to Jenn S. and Darcy W. for their brilliant title suggestions.
The McNattons and the Floyds are the people who formed me and shaped me throughout my life. For good or bad, they made me the person I am. I’ll always be grateful for their love and support.
Last but not least, thank you, Goble, for making all my dreams come true. You are the love and the light of my life
About the author
Jacie Floyd writes contemporary romance, romantic comedy, and emotionally-rich stories about the kind of strong women and bold men you want to read about and know.
From the time she read her first Nancy Drew mystery, she's been an avid reader and writer in a variety of genres. After many years as a wife and mother with a nine-to-five job, the desire to create her own stories became her obsession. While polishing her craft as an unpublished author, she was honored to be named a six-time Golden Heart Finalist and two-time Golden Heart winner by the Romance Writers of America. Finally giving in to the inevitable, she abandoned her day job in order to self-publish the kind of stories she likes to read and write. She hopes you like them, too.
Jacie is happy to connect with readers at www.jaciefloyd.com, on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest. She also welcomes you to sign up for her newsletter.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living are dead, is purely coincidental.
Winning Wyatt: ©2015 by Jacqueline Floyd
Cover Design: Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs
1st Edition
All rights reserved.
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author.
Table of Contents
The Brotherhood Begins
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
Thank you!
Books by Jacie Floyd
The Billionaire Brotherhood
Remaking Ryan Excerpt
Meet Your Mate Excerpt
Acknowledgments
About the author
Copyright