My Plan B (Middlemarch Shifters Book 11) Read online

  MY PLAN B

  Shelley Munro

  Middlemarch Shifters, book 11

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  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 Bonus

  Excerpt – My Cat Nap

  About Shelley

  Other Books by Shelley

  Copyright Page

  Blurb

  Plan A sucks. Move over for plan B…

  Sports commentator and reporter, Megan Saxon, has it all. The perfect career and freedom to do anything she wants, but as the years creep by she realizes love, or at least male companionship, has thumbed its nose at her. With the help of her agent-friend, she hatches Plan B. A brief love affair with a younger man will cure all ills and help her plan for the future.

  The problem with plan B? Nothing, I repeat nothing, goes the way she plans, and she’s left gasping for breath, dodging reporters and suffering acute embarrassment.

  The. Worst. Blushing. Epidemic. Ever.

  Long-term widower and werewolf, Jacey Anderson, has moved to small country town Middlemarch to be near his grieving adult stepson, Henry, and to embrace the wide, open spaces with his wolf. He’s not expecting romance and especially with a public figure who attracts reporters like flies at a dung heap. His attraction to the sexy, sassy Megan has disaster written all over it, yet try telling that to his moonstruck wolf.

  Yes, this Plan B has potential calamity for both parties. A pity that neither of them has a lick of good sense when they’re in the same room, touching… Kissing… Caressing…

  Contains: werewolves, feline shifters, and creatures that howl at the night moon. There is also hot love, laughter and lots of teasing.

  Chapter One

  Auckland, New Zealand

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Something was up with her boss. Megan Saxon watched Jeremy squirm in his executive chair, his gaze skittering over the sheaf of papers in front of him, over the signed and framed All Blacks jersey on the wall to her right, over the office-size basketball hoop in the left corner of his office. Finally, his gaze alighted on a pen. He seized the silver writing utensil. His fingers squeezed, and his tanned face held a wealth of frustration. Regret.

  It was this last emotion that set her belly swirling with dread. Megan forced herself to stay still, to wait while her quick breakfast of milky coffee and a banana churned in her gut. Normally, Jeremy perched on the edge of his giant desk, his easy manner making her job as a sports broadcaster and journalist fun and fulfilling. Exciting. Exhilarating.

  This was something else.

  His garish tie—today’s version covered with yellow cartoon characters—didn’t stir her normal urge for wisecracks and insults. Great. Now Jeremy’s weird mood had transferred to her.

  Enough. Megan straightened on the unpadded chair—uncomfortable on purpose because Jeremy didn’t favor long meetings—and cleared her throat.

  Jeremy’s gaze shot from his pen to her, and this time he frowned, upping her anxiety.

  “What’s wrong, boss?” She scrutinized the play of emotions in him and leapt to her feet, unable to remain stoic and businesslike for an instant longer. “Is it about the new sports show? I thought everything was ready for the first episode next month. I’m excited at the opportunity to work with Dallas Jones.” And how! Every time she pictured the retired All Black, she did a mental cha-cha-cha. Her anxiety seeped away, and buoyed by this exciting career move, she didn’t pace as she’d intended. Wait until she caught up with her sister and told her the official news. Rumors had floated around for months, but she hadn’t been able to confirm them. “Have the big bosses decided on the final format?”

  “Yes. No,” Jeremy spluttered, displaying none of his usual decisiveness.

  “Are you sick?” Megan pressed her lips together. Her breakfast spun another circuit of her stomach, and she swiped clammy hands down her jeans-clad thighs. “Is there a problem?”

  “You’re too old,” Jeremy blurted.

  “What?” Indignation stabbed her, stabbed her with a rusty knife. “I’m thirty-eight! Since when is that old?” She lied, deducting five years without a blink as she planted hands on her hips and glared at the insult. Damn it, she didn’t look her age. Everyone said so.

  “The bosses are going with Rowena Johnson as the co-host.”

  What? No. Every muscle in her body tensed. “Rowena? But she doesn’t have the experience to co-anchor a sports show. She’s a glorified weathergirl.” Younger. Blonde. Sexy. And now she’d wrested Megan’s dream job from her. No, she didn’t believe it. Sudden enlightenment occurred. “Oh! I get it. You’re pranking me. Good one, boss. You really got me.”

  “I’m not joking. Here…” He rifled through his pile of papers and handed her an inter-office memo. The official kind deemed important enough for a paper and an electronic copy.

  With a noticeably trembling hand, she accepted the page and scanned the contents. Horror pinched her lips together as she groped through her confusion. “I don’t understand. Are they firing me?” Her voice shook with the beginnings of anger and she blinked because tears had her vision blurring. She didn’t do girly tears and prided herself on the fact. The feminine weapon had no business entering the workplace. “Are they sacking me because I’m too old?”

  “No. No of course not,” Jeremy snapped. “That would be illegal. In fact, I have an assignment for you.” He pulled another page from the pile of papers in front of him. “Ah, yes. Here it is.” He handed her a single page. “This is a weekend gig. Commentator for a Sevens rugby tournament and a general interest piece on the small town where the tournament is taking place.”

  Megan’s brows scrunched together. “Middlemarch? I’ve never heard of the place.”

  “It’s in the South Island, not far from Dunedin.”

  “Dunedin? It snows there.” Heck, now she sounded like a whining child. “It feels as if you’re sending me away. Banishing me.” Her mind weighed up everything, and she shot him a glare. “What happens after this assignment? It’s only one weekend. You’ve replaced me on the commentary team. What’s next?”

  Jeremy’s gaze went AWOL again, refusing to meet hers. “Aw, well…that’s up in the air right now.”

  “Up in the air?” The words emerged a smidgeon short of a shriek. Megan winced, sucked in a calming breath and clenched her fists to center herself. Once she was certain of her ability to speak, she glanced at Jeremy. “The management are shifting me sideways because of my age, because I’m a female.”

  “No, that’s not what’s happening.” Once again, Jeremy’s gaze didn’t linger, flitting in the manner of a flighty bird scared of the neighborhood cat.

  But it was happening, and both of them knew it.

  A fresh surge of moisture stung her eyes. She couldn’t cry in front of Jeremy. She refused to cry in a place where her male colleagues might witness her breakdown and gossip like elderly ladies in a teashop. The tittle-tattle would be bad enough without her adding fuel to their hearsay fire.

  “I’ll do the Middlemarch job and take a week’s leave. I’d appreciate it if you inform me of my future options on my return.” Megan forced the words past the lump constricting her throat and willed the pending tears to dispe
rse. A few more minutes. She’d hold herself together for a few more minutes.

  “Of course.” Jeremy looked happier at her suggestion. “That’s a good idea. I’ll get Ruby to organize the tickets and accommodation. The tournament will be for three nights since the opening game is Friday night. Actually, go a day earlier and see the sights. You’ll need a rental car too.”

  Megan nodded, unable to utter another word without falling apart. She turned away and concentrated on walking instead of running out of Jeremy’s office. She left without a farewell or her usual cheek. Another word, just one utterance, might snap her grip on her emotions. This wasn’t fair. She wasn’t old. Since when did forty equate to a person on the scrapheap?

  Anger burned as she strode through the main office. She waved when a group of her coworkers hailed her and pointed at her watch as if she were late for an appointment.

  They—all men—were in their late thirties and forties. Eric was fifty-two. None of them got shunted aside because of their age. A sharp pain in her hand made her realize she’d clenched her fists hard enough for her nails to pierce the skin.

  The pain centered her mind, brought her focus. Get out of here. Get home. Then, she could fall apart. Yell. Scream. Make effigies of her bosses and poke pins in them.

  Bastards.

  Forty-three wasn’t past it.

  She thrust open the doors into the carpark and stomped over to her zippy red coupe. Five minutes later, she peeled from her space and headed home.

  She’d do the job at Middlemarch, give her best efforts as she usually did, but it was clear she’d need to come up with a Plan B because Plan A sucked big time.

  * * * * *

  “They’ve replaced me on the new show.” She glared at her computer screen and the familiar face of Janet, her United States agent. “They’re shunting me sideways.”

  Janet’s brows scrunched. “Why?”

  “I’m too old.”

  “They can’t do that.”

  “They’ve done it,” Megan said, fury punching out her words in staccato beats.

  “You should write full-time. Your sales are stellar, and the publisher will snap up more from you in a heartbeat. Start that new paranormal romance series you mentioned last year.”

  “I don’t know. Writing is fun, something to fill the long plane flights and the nights in hotel rooms. If I go full-time, I’d worry about the writing becoming a drag. A chore. I love working with the sports team, traveling to commentate games and interview the players. I feel…I feel as though they’ve spare-tackled me—driven my head into the ground and left me unconscious, away in la-la land. The writing is fun, and the fact I’ve sold and made a decent living is a side benefit. It’s something just for me, you know?”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Megan sighed, the expulsion of air leaving her lightheaded. She inhaled again while her mind sorted through her alternatives. Her shoulders slumped. “While I don’t agree with their ageism, hitting my forties limits my options. I guess I’ll do lists of pros and cons and work out what I do want. I have a job in the South Island for this weekend and then a weeklong holiday. Hopefully, I’ll come up with Plan B before I have to return to the office. I don’t think Jeremy knows what to do with me either.”

  “You could always self-publish your new series and work at your own pace or take a penname and try something different.”

  “What? You’d lose out on your fee.” Megan smiled at her agent of five years and the woman who had become a friend as well as her tough negotiator and secret weapon.

  Janet grinned back. “No, I wouldn’t, because my next suggestion is to use our in-house publishing. Win-win for me.”

  “I’ll think about it. Add the idea to my lists.” Hadn’t she always yearned to write a historical romance? Maybe this was the opportunity to take this step.

  “Have you considered writing an autobiography for someone else?”

  “Ghost writing?”

  “Yes. The agency gets requests from celebrities who can’t or won’t for whatever reason do their own writing.”

  “You think I could do that?”

  “I do. You’re used to interviewing sporting celebrities, asking the hard questions. You’ve won awards for it. Add the option to your mega lists.”

  “Are you making fun of my lists?”

  “Always,” Janet said, the twinkle in her brown eyes removing any sting.

  Megan nodded. “Will do. I’d better pack for my trip to this one-horse town. Jeremy didn’t give me much notice, even though they received the invitation months ago. He must have intended to send one of the junior commentators, so on top of this, I’ll have another employee grousing about me and glaring holes in my back, full of resentment at losing a gig.”

  “Not your fault,” Janet said. “You can’t control stuff like this.”

  “True, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. Look at this as an opportunity.”

  “Yeah,” Megan mumbled, bitterness leaving her empty and exhausted. Some opportunity.

  “One more suggestion to add to your list,” Janet said, that twinkle appearing in her eyes again.

  “What?”

  “Find a younger man and let him screw your brains out. That always perks me up.”

  “Lord, I can’t remember when I last…oh, yeah.” She brightened then winced. “The last guy I dated was a doctor. He used to break dates because of work commitments. I thought I’d surprise him with dinner one night because he said he had work and needed to cancel our date. I found him screwing his wife. Since then, I’ve been wary. I have other bad dating stories I haven’t told you about yet.” No one even came close to comparing to Charlie.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Janet shook her head. “Find a young stud. You’re attractive. You won’t have any difficulty in finding a man.”

  “Can I quote you on that?” The job she loved impeded romance, and she’d chosen to focus on her work much to Tessa, her younger sister’s disgust. Looking back now, she saw her mistakes. Maybe Tessa with her snooty asides had been correct. “All right, I’ll add it to Plan B, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “This gig at the one-horse town. Is it rugby related?”

  “Yes.”

  Janet waggled her eyebrows. “Then, you have a pool of potential young studs.”

  “I’m the commentator. I can’t sleep with one of the players.”

  “Why not?”

  “I-I…” Her brain stopped working. She had nothing because it was a weekend tournament, and she wasn’t responsible for refereeing decisions. There was no conflict of interest if she decided to allow a player to pick her up. Of course, she didn’t want a coach bawling her out because she’d exhausted one of his players. Gossip, too, was another consideration. She’d never placed herself in a position where people discussed her morals and didn’t intend to start on this path to loss of her reputation. She drew herself up and nodded at the computer screen. “I’ll consider the idea.”

  “That’s my girl. And on that note, I’ll leave you. Is your latest book coming along nicely? Do we need to shift any deadlines?”

  “I sent the final edits into Carol last week, and I’ve started work on the last book in the trilogy. It’s going well. My deadline will be fine since I’ll get writing time in while I’m on holiday.”

  “You’re not staying at home?”

  “No, depending on the weather, I might zap across to Sydney or drive to Taupo.” Charlie, her fiancé, was buried in Taupo, and she hadn’t visited for a while.

  “Good,” Janet said. “I expect a postcard. Go and do some work. Think about your next proposal while you’re away. I’m not kidding. Your publisher is keen to sign you for another series.”

  “I’ll do that, Janet. Thanks.” Megan hit disconnect and stared at her screen for an instant. A picture of her and Charlie with a background of the Sydney harbor in Australia. They’d just become engaged, their young and innocent f
aces full of joy. Charlie had proposed to her before he left to join his army squad in Afghanistan. The roadside bomb had changed everything. She sighed and turned off her computer. She should change the picture, but every time she went to do that, something stopped her. They would’ve celebrated twenty years of marriage now, probably with children…

  Megan pushed away from her desk, no longer in the mood to write. She wandered through her harborside apartment, pausing to stare out the window at the dark waters and the lights from the CBD, the harbor bridge and the businesses and homes on the North Shore of the city. She’d always loved her apartment and its central location. Tonight, it felt lonely. Sad.

  She grabbed her red coat, a beanie to pull over her blonde hair and her black handbag. She’d go to the nearby hotel for a drink. No, maybe a cocktail. If she found someone to talk to—good. If not, she’d start on her lists. She’d pack once she arrived home. It wouldn’t matter if she was late because she’d never sleep tonight, anyway. A snort erupted. Not for the reason Janet might suspect. Anger and frustration still simmered every time she thought of the way they were shuffling her sideways.

  Time for Plan B.

  Chapter Two

  Jacob Anderson, known as Jacey by his stepson and friends, tore across the brow of the hill in his wolf form. Henry, his stepson, and Leo Mitchell, a leopard shifter and new acquaintance, raced behind him. Geoffrey, Henry’s Jack Russell, followed in the rear, his joyous bark filling the air.

  Jacey dodged a pile of schist and sped into the coolness of a stand of pine. The wind ruffled his fur. The scent of pine and earth filled every breath along with satisfaction. He’d missed Henry and his friend Gerard. In his heart, Gerard was a second son, and he’d enjoyed seeing the boy marry in the human way in Fiji.

  Jacey huffed, his sharp teeth showing in a wolfish smile. London was perfect for Gerard, although a part of him wished he’d met Jenny, the woman Henry had thought his mate. His son had taken the woman’s death hard, and Jacey ached for him. He knew the pain of losing a mate.

  Leo let out a feline bark, a command to stop and shift. Since he was a newcomer to Middlemarch and Henry hadn’t run in this area of the country before, Leo had come along to show them where they could shift in safety.