Excerpt of High Frequency by Jocie McKade

So, this was how her editor rewarded her for breaking the story of the year in Chicago? She said a few choice cuss words under her breath, as she plotted her revenge against Garrett.

It had taken only a matter of days to go from Chicago’s darling to exiled journalist covering of all things, crop circles in England. Up the hill, why was everything up the hill in England? Trying to navigate the hill in her heels, a male voice sounded behind her.

""Hey, sweet cheeks, what's your angle on this? Think it's legitimate or just another hoax?""

""Who cares?"" She smirked, not bothering to turn around, sloshing upwards. The Jimmy Choo pumps did little to keep out the muddy, soggy crap. ""Didn't hear you say who you’re reporting for, darling. Or are you just a crop circle groupie?""

Great a creep. A groupie, really? What century was this Neanderthal from? ""Bite me."" She kept walking.

""Lose everything but those go-to-hell pumps and I'll bite you anywhere."" A smile tickled across her lips that she couldn't stop. A creep with a sense of humor. Considering she was soaked to the skin, stuck in this God-forsaken field, and in desperate need of something humorous, she stopped.

Turning around she was pleasantly surprised. She'd been expecting a wide-eyed, scientific geek, carrying an iPad, and trying to look hot in short pants and white socks.

What she saw made parts of her go all mushy. The man was tall, with lips that curled into a too-seductive grin. A set of dimples played across his cheeks, chestnut colored wet curls clung to his forehead and dashing green eyes flirted unashamedly at her. She completely forgot what the hell she was doing, saying, or going.

""Look at that. There's a little nasty under that business suit."" He laughed, sloshing through the muddy field standing beside her. She picked up a hint of Chicago-Irish in his voice.

Wet ooze began to cover her feet. Oh crap, she'd stood in one spot too long and was sinking in the mud like an elephant in quicksand. Pulling one leg up, it made her other leg sink farther.

Both feet were now firmly encased in the dark, murky mud. The corners of those green eyes crinkled as his face was covered with a huge smile. Tilting his head slightly, he pointed to his own feet. ""What you need out here is a good, stout pair of Wellies.”

A pair of dark green traditional British mud boots rose to his knees and seemed to ride above the mud. One of her feet came out of the mud with a disgusting farting sound. Lauren winced. “Those are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe. But my feet are dry. Are yours?” That amazing dimpled smile reappeared.

The other foot came loose with an intense burping sound. So much for first impressions.

“Derek Rourke, reporter with The Lens.” He extended his hand.

All of those spots that had gone all mushy on her body suddenly wilted. Why did every man she meet turn out to be a dud?

""The Lens? And you admit it?""

The smile dropped from his face and those laughing green eyes gave her a cold stare. ""So, you're what? An ace reporter for the New York Times, Washington Post? Did the big boys have a slow news day and need late breaking information on the dangers of crop circles?"" With a smirk, he brushed past her.

""Hey."" She yelled at him, trying to un-stick her feet. Exasperated, she pulled the muddy blocks of shoes off, and walked barefoot to the road. “I'm sorry. It's just that The Lens doesn't have such a great reputation.”

Her shoes were dripping mud. Flipping them to shake the sticky stuff off, a huge chunk splattered with a thud in the middle of his chest.

This day just kept getting better.