Ernie swung the camera over to Tate.
“An investigation has uncovered that Mayor Chris O’Malley allegedly used reelection funds for personal use. Our Jenny Jenkins is reporting live from outside the mayor’s office where a press conference is scheduled for 10 A.M. Jenny, what are you hearing? Will the mayor be addressing these allegations personally?”
Amanda’s jaw dropped. She was unable to comprehend what had just happened. Tate had broken her story! She motioned for him to toss it back to her, but he either didn’t see her or didn’t want to. All she could do was listen as Tate fired one question after another to the reporter. Three minutes later, he wrapped up.
“Thanks, Jenny. We’ll continue to provide coverage on this explosive story as it develops.”
The camera zoomed in on Amanda, snapping her back to the moment. The teleprompter was working and running the next few lines. Words originally meant for Tate, but were now hers.
Humiliated, she forced a smile and read the next line. “In other news . . .”
Tate chuckled and removed his tie. He didn’t care for bright red—and with green stripes, he could easily be mistaken for one of Santa’s elves. That is, except for his height. He only wore the tie to mess with Amanda. Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out a more suitable royal blue one and put it on.
She was infuriated with him. No question about it. After the newscast, she’d stomped away from the anchor desk without saying a word. How was her freezing under pressure his fault? She should have thanked him, not given him the cold shoulder.
His door suddenly flew open.
Speak of the devil.
And she was still as gorgeous as ever—even with imaginary darts spewing from her beautiful green eyes. He was a glutton for punishment.
“What the hell happened in there?” Amanda burst in and slammed the door.
The clock above the entrance shook off center. Tate calmly smoothed his tie, rubbing his hand up and down his chest. This ought to be good.
“Hello, and you’re welcome.” He moved to straighten the clock. A benefit to being tall. What he really needed to do was move the timepiece to another wall since Amanda slammed his door often.
“You’re welcome? You want me to thank you? You just humiliated me on live TV.”
“No, I just saved you from humiliation. Big difference.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Did you jam the teleprompter?”
“Excuse me? You think I sabotaged you?”
Amanda cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”
“You really think I would do that? Aren’t we on the same team? You know—dynamic duo. I stepped in when you clearly needed some help.”
“I was fine,” she retorted.
“Right,” he said skeptically. “Not so great at thinking on your feet? I could give you a few pointers.”
“I don’t need any help, especially from you.” She grimaced and narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t give me time to recover.”
“Amanda, we were headed toward dead air. Now that would have humiliated not only you but the entire station. Did you want that to happen?”
“No, of course not. I would have said something. I just needed a second. You didn’t give me a chance.”
“Look, I was trying to help you save face. What’s the big deal?” He lifted his tie and pointed it toward her. “Better?”
“Enough.” She gritted her teeth. “I couldn’t care less about the color of your tie, the suit you’re wearing, or the color of the dress on your bimbo last night.”
He threw back his head and gave an exaggerated laugh. “For your information, it was pink—hot pink.” It was a lie, of course. There had been no bimbo or a hot pink dress last night. He’d gone home alone—like he had every night since he’d started working with Amanda. But she didn’t need to know that.
Amanda shook her head and glanced up at the clock. They were scheduled to be back in the studio to cover the press conference. “This conversation is not over.” She opened his door.
“It never is with you.” He walked up and faced her. This woman knew how to get under his skin. They were inches apart. Her vanilla scented perfume enticed his nostrils. What he wouldn’t give to swoop down and devour her neck. When it came to Amanda, there were so many things he really wanted to do rather than argue, but now wasn’t the time to act on his feelings. She’d most likely slap him.
He lifted his hands and squeezed her shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a press conference to cover.”
CHAPTER TWO
Later that evening, Amanda shifted in her stool at the Singing Surf Tavern on the waterfront and reflected on the day’s events. She sipped her white wine and closed her eyes. The cold liquid flowed down the back of her throat. Soon it would do its magic and erase the miserable day.
She laughed bitterly. How could one ill-timed malfunction cost her the opportunity of a lifetime? At least her station had been the first to break the story. Maybe she was being too hard on Tate; perhaps she should’ve thanked him for jumping in when he did.
But there was the little matter of him not tossing the story back to her. Not only did he break it, it appeared he enjoyed doing so. The way he gloated afterwards, believing he had saved the day. What was his deal? He hadn’t lifted a finger during the investigation but had gallantly walked around the newsroom all day like he was Tom Brokaw.
She swirled her wine inside her glass. Why, at thirty-three, was he working in Wilmington? Why not a bigger market? He was talented and well liked. There was no denying that their ratings had improved since his arrival in January. Viewers really took to him—at least the focus groups indicated they did.
Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it from the bar counter. Her younger brother, Alex, had sent her a text. The message, Check your Facebook, appeared on the tiny screen.
That was vague. She touched the icon. There were no new messages. Perhaps her very pregnant sister, Quinn, had posted something on her wall about the baby. Amanda’s finger slid up and down, scrolling through the statuses. Jen, a production assistant, was making macaroni and cheese, and writing out her Christmas dinner shopping list. David, Amanda’s friend from church, was at the dog park. She laughed. It amused her how some people used the online platform to broadcast the most mundane events in their lives. Who really cares what you’re planning to make for Christmas dinner or that you’re picking up your dog’s sh—?
Wait a minute. Her heart stopped and her fingers trembled. Brad Sullivan had changed his status from single to engaged.
This had to be a cruel joke. Her ex-boyfriend was getting married? How could this be? Mister “I’m afraid of commitment” was engaged? To whom? It was only two years ago that he’d been her boyfriend.
Brad wasn’t just an ex-boyfriend—he was her only ex-boyfriend. They had grown up together and had known each other all their lives, but it was only when she started working at their hometown news station after college that they began dating.
While Amanda worked the eleven o’clock weekend shift, Brad had enrolled in the police academy program and, shortly after graduating, became a police officer for their town. They were together for five years.
Amanda wanted to get married. There was no question in her mind that Brad was the one. They’d talked about it, but Brad seemed to always have a reason why it would be better to wait. He had made all the excuses under the sun from wanting them both to be better established in their careers to needing to save up enough money to buy a house.