Page 1 of The Daring Storm Chaser

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.

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