Four Footed Matchmaker: Love by the Numbers, #4

By J.A. Coffey

It ain't easy being related to a movie star--until fate intervenes and I land an audition to become the lead singer of America's favorite rock band, Wylde Ryder, just when I meet the woman of my dreams...

Benjamin Breck has lived in his older, famous brother's shadow his whole life. Now the former elementary music teacher is catapulted into the spotlight--and realizes fame requires a lot more than he'd expected. Singing has always been his dream and he's not about to let this one die.

Tasked with helping the wanna-be rocker, introverted cat-lover Cree Williams can't believe her new job lands her in the front pages--defending Ben from his nosy neighbors, and protecting herself from the charming crooner's advances. As a new attorney working for DeSilva's agency, she doesn't have time for romance--especially not with a client.

But the more Cree advises Ben, the bigger the trouble surrounding him grows. When an enemy of the DeSilva family resurfaces, intent on destroying Ben's dreams, Cree's job and reputation are on the line, as much as the fledgling rock star's. Can Ben and Cree untangle this mess in time to save themselves and their FOUR-FOOTED MATCHMAKER?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.A. Coffey
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386296768

Book preview

Copyright (c) 2017 by J.A. Coffey

Cover by J.A. Coffey

Editing by Jody Wallace of Meankitty Editing

This e-book is sold on condition that it shall not be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the copyright owner's consent, and without a similar condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

About this Book:

It ain't easy being related to a movie star—until fate intervenes and I land an audition to become the lead singer of America's favorite rock band, Wylde Ryder, just when I meet the woman of my dreams...

Benjamin Breck has lived in his older, famous brother's shadow his whole life. Now the former elementary music teacher is catapulted into the spotlight—and realizes fame requires a lot more than he'd expected. Singing has always been his dream and he's not about to let this one die.

Tasked with helping the wanna-be rocker, introverted cat-lover Cree Williams can't believe her new job lands her in the front pages—defending Ben from his nosy neighbors, and protecting herself from the charming crooner's advances. As a new attorney working for DeSilva's agency, she doesn't have time for romance—especially not with a client.

But the more Cree advises Ben, the bigger the trouble surrounding him grows. When an enemy of the DeSilva family resurfaces, intent on destroying Ben's dreams, Cree's job and reputation are on the line, as much as the fledgling rock star's. Can Ben and Cree untangle this mess in time to save themselves and their FOUR-FOOTED MATCHMAKER?

Table of Contents

Copyright Information

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

About the Author

Sweet Readers,

I hope you love this series as much as I’ve enjoyed creating a new world for you. Love by the Numbers Romances feature younger heroes and heroines who struggle with life and love without the benefit of years of experience. I’m enthralled by the raw intensity of this new novel and I hope it becomes one of your favorites, too.

I’ve been waiting to write Ben and Cree’s story for so long. I can hardly believe it’s finally here. Many thanks to the people who have helped make this one possible—my editor Jody who rules all things feline (including Frick) and knows how to pull my ass out of the fire; Caroline, my best cheerleader who lets me spout off ideas half-formed; Chanta Rand who graciously included me in a reference for diverse romances that portray people of color with respect; a special attorney who let me pick her brain while on a dinner cruise in Prague—and of course you. My readers are what keep me housebound and writing like a fiend. Thanks for all the support!

Happy Reading!

J.A. Coffey

Chapter One

Ben

A few short weeks after being handed the offer of a lifetime, I’m buried inside the largest pet store in town picking up a few things for my best girl. I‘d just finished stuffing a huge bag of dog chow into my cart when my cell buzzes with an L.A. area code.

Hey, Benjamin. How’s the superstar doing? It’s my twin brother James, and his comment almost makes me laugh. But I don’t. He’s already a star, has been for a long time.

You heard the concert was a success, huh? James is about as famous and talented as they come. After landing a small part on a television sitcom right out of high school, he’s since starred in over thirteen major motion pictures, and he hobnobs with the A-listers. Hell, he is an A-lister, and he’s usually off with the neat elite on his next adventure.

So I’m shocked he took time in his busy schedule to track the small benefit concert I played with Wylde Ryder—or that he’s interested in anything outside of his own massive ego.

I knew you’d be awesome. There’s a note of pride in his voice, one that sets my teeth on edge. As if he’s saying, you wouldn’t have this if it wasn’t for me.

Gee, I didn’t realize you were such a fan, I grit, stopping my cart and bending down to rub my new dog, Tink, behind the ears. Her mottled brown and white fur feels like velvet under my fingers.

A fan of yours or Wylde Ryder? James asks.

Neither, I think, but I can’t force myself to insult him by saying it. Our relationship isn’t the easiest, but he’s family, so I think we both keep trying. Whether it seems to be working or not. I roll the cart down the aisle towards the chew toys, passing the expanse of adoptable cats and dogs yapping and yowling on the west side of the building.

When I don’t answer, he continues. What’s with all the racket? Turn down the tube already.

It’s not the television. I’m at the pet store. I guide the cart down the next aisle. Tink sniffs at a few of the offerings cautiously, keeping close to me at all times.

What the hell for?

I got a dog. She needs stuff.

You got a...what? He’s incredulous, like I just told him I’m moving to Mars.

A dog, I say, mimicking the disbelief in his tone. Along with an awesome new condo, not too far from Pike Place Market. Just moved last weekend. Which he’d know, if he ever bothered to pay attention to someone besides himself. Though James is my twin, we don’t exactly share that legendary bond. In fact, we don’t share much at all.

Dude, you’re going to be jet-setting around the world. Concerts, appearances, sponsorships, he points out, as if he’s inviting me to a super-secret brotherhood of awesomesauce. Your schedule is gonna be hella crazy, just getting you up to speed. A dog is a lot of responsibility. Are you sure this is a good idea?

I’ve been herding hundreds of elementary students through my classroom for three years, bro. I’m pretty sure I can handle responsibility. But it does feel weird to be capitalizing on my new music career so quickly. I straighten my shoulders. Tink and I can handle anything. I beam with pride as my dog recognizes her new name with a happy tail wag. I shift the cart as she strains on the leash, because something buried in a mass of plush toys has caught her attention.

James guffaws. Tink?

I clear my throat. Short for Tinkerbelle.

Tell me you didn’t get one of those foo-foo things people carry around in a satchel. His voice drips with scorn.

I might have, I say, though she isn’t.

I imagine him clapping a hand over his too-handsome face. Obviously we’re not identical. Our features are similar, but my nose is broad, and I inherited my mom’s high cheekbones rather than my dad’s strong jawline. Looking at me is like looking at James through a funhouse mirror. Plus, he’s a dick. Mostly. I’m not, or at least I try harder than he does not to be, especially since three months ago, I’d assumed my future was in elementary school education. Not really a place suited to jerks.

Benjamin. He adopts his chiding older brother tone. What a joke. He beat me onto the birthing table by thirteen minutes and thinks that makes him the sage adviser.

She’s a perfect little beauty, aren’t you, girl? I croon. Tink stops pulling on her leash and looks up at me, tilting her blocky, wrinkled bulldog head so she can inspect me with her doleful brown eyes. In truth, she’s more elephant than elegant, but I let James suffer through his own delusions. Besides, she had nowhere else to go.

Fine. You got a dog. Is your new place going to allow that? he asks.

I paid my fees, including the pet deposit. There’s a two-pet limit. I’d been so punch drunk on success after the concert and signing with Marco DeSilva’s agency that I’d emptied my savings account and invested it in the top floor living space of one of the most exclusive high-rise condominiums in Seattle. I’m normally very cautious with my meager earnings, but with the money I should start making under my new label, replenishing my nest egg shouldn’t be a problem. Just gotta finish signing all the contracts.

You won’t see a dime of that money back, he says.

Things are good, James. Thought you’d be happier for me. Mom and Dad are. After all, without him clueing me in, I never would’ve auditioned to be the new lead singer for Wylde Ryder.

His voice is abrupt as ever. Thought you’d be a little more grateful.

I am grateful. And irritated as hell that the audition was James’ idea. He’s always had an easy in on success while I’m the one floundering his way through life. But now that Marco DeSilva has decided to expand his agency to bring in more clients, I’m going to be ahead of the pack.

I can tell, Benjamin. Anyways, I gotta go. Back to his action-packed international fame and his billion dollar bank accounts.

I rub my forehead in aggravation, though he can’t see me. Every conversation we have seems to get hostile at the end, no matter how it starts or what it’s about. Tink spirals my legs, twisting me up in her red leather leash. Yeah, I bet. Later, man. And I hang up the phone.

Despite the fact he pushed me to audition for Wylde Ryder when their lead singer needed a sabbatical, my brother and I don’t really get along. Which is saying something, because I pretty much get along with everyone. But James has always had a movie-star mentality, while I was happy to bury myself in music and stick kinda sorta close to our parents, who live in suburbia. James, on the other hand, hasn’t seen them in years.

Hopefully, it’s time for my star to shine for a change.

Tink and I finish our selections—a plush dog bed and a squeaky toy shaped like a rolled up newspaper that she refused to give back after I offer it for testing.

Eeeep, eep. The toy emits a whining honk as I pay for our purchases and we hit the road for home. Tink’s carrying the toy delicately in her jowls. I wonder if it reminds her of her puppies, long since adopted to happy homes, including the one kept by former Wylde Ryder front man Zane Ryder and his girlfriend.

There’s no one in my building’s front foyer when we stroll in, not even Rainey, the doorman. I can hear noises from the back hall where deliveries are received, so he must be dealing with the boys in brown dropping off packages for the residents. No worries. The elevators require the use of an access keycard, so privacy here is assured.

Tink strains on her leash as the elevator pings at each floor, as if she can hardly wait to collapse on the couch again. After a brief ride to the top floor and a short walk down a hallway past my neighbor’s rug and huge potted plant, we’re safely ensconced in the dwelling of my dreams—black granite, exposed brick, natural light, and a semi-private rooftop patio. It even comes with hefty monthly dues to a Management Association that keeps the riffraff out, which, up until a few weeks ago, would’ve included me.

Too bad I owe it all to big brother James, eh, Tink? I ask. She responds with a whuff of agreement.

Eeeppppeeeeep, the toy in her mouth honks.

Precisely.

And people think dogs are the same as kids. Try asking a six-year-old about life choices and see how far that gets you.

I spend the next few hours unpacking my music equipment, plugging in my speakers and electric keyboard, and generally making myself at home. There’s a killer view of the Seattle skyline outside my penthouse windows, and I feel like I’m literally on top of the world.

Which reminds me that I’ve got to sign the paperwork at DeSilva’s new headquarters, and we need to prep for the new concert tour dates. I’d better brush up on Wylde Ryder’s discography. I queue up the recorded tracks that one of our roadies, Gordon, prepared for me to practice with. No need for my mic or any speakers. It’s just me and the music floating free, the way that it should be.

Music is the one thing I can always connect with. It’s the only time I let myself go, forget life and my too-famous twin, and the fact that most of society places no value on my chosen callings—music and teaching. At least this way, I’ll get fairly compensated for my efforts. If some of my eventual paycheck goes to help educational causes, that’ll help my conscience and the kids.

Hanging onto this new job all depends on my singing, so vocal practice is my new best friend. I’ve got solid breath control, I’m using my diaphragm without getting pitchy, but I need to find a way to match the former lead’s husky tenor without straining my vocal chords. Too much rasp and I’ll develop painful nodes and cut my career short. Thankfully, I’m well aware of the pitfalls, having schooled my students on the best way to breathe, to push for sound, to open their throats and let the art pour forth.

I’m careful as I sing my heart out, striving to match the emotion of Wylde Ryder’s former lead, who had to step back after a bout of cancer knocked the wind out of him.

Tink circles inside her new plushy bed and then flops belly first, placing her squeaky toy protectively between her stubby front paws. She looks up with serious eyes, the perfect rapt audience. I’m three songs in when there’s an insistent buzzing in my head, one that has nothing to do with the rock music I’m flinging. Takes me a second to realize it’s my door chime.

A thin, middle-aged man with reddish hair and a briefcase pivots on my threshold. Oh. He seems startled to see me, which is weird, because he rang the doorbell. You’re...uh... the new tenant?

Live and in the flesh. Ben Breck. I offer him my hand, but he doesn’t take it. And this here’s Tinkerbelle.

Tink waddles over, toy conspicuously absent, tongue lolling, and sniffs the guy’s perfectly creased trousers. I beam at her. It wasn’t that long ago that my poor girl was terrified of everyone but me.

My name’s Nelson Frick. I wasn’t aware the Association had sold this unit. He sniffs, and I immediately find myself disliking him. I’ve been around kids and their parents long enough to know a bully when I see one. Doesn’t matter if the steel in his briefcase or his backbone. A bully’s a bully.

They sure did. Is there something I can help you with? I’m gonna play nice with the others in my building because this is one hell of a cool playground. With a private lounge, exercise facility, and a front doorman, it’s big enough for us all to share.

For starters, you can turn down your music. I can hear it in my place. Frick waves his hand toward the other end of the hallway connecting our two units.

Really? I’m sorry. I had the guys install a lot of soundproofing. And I’d specifically set up my studio on the opposite end of my floorplan, near the exterior wall where noise shouldn’t be a problem. Still, this guy seems to be making it his problem. My apologies. I’m a musician.

I don’t want to think about how bad my new neighbor’s going to flip when I actually turn on my mic and speakers, but rehearsing and composing is my job and I plan to be great at it. It’s why DeSilva is willing to take me on so quickly—as long as I can stay ahead of the demanding schedule and please the fans, I’ll be golden. And hopefully the money will start to roll in for me and Tink. In addition to this condo, I’m gonna need a reliable vehicle, private health insurance, and a replenished retirement account.

Is that so? Frick’s lip curls the tiniest bit as Tink plops down in a completely adorable heap of fur and wrinkles.

I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’ll try to keep it down.

He doesn’t answer, just takes a step closer. Did you pay a pet deposit? The Association is very clear on preventing any pet damage to the building or adjoining common spaces. Including hallways. His tone reminds me of this crappy TA I had in college. Never did like that guy. Nearly flunked the class, too. "My Plumeria rubra won’t abide tampered soil. They’re very sensitive, you know."

So sensitive the ass keeps it in a china pot outside his door? Tink stops lolling and rolls to her feet with a sort of whining growl. We’ll be sure to stay away from your...er...what was it?

He gestures to the ornate pot that holds a few twigs with glossy green leaves. In common parlance, it’s a frangipani tree. It’s also poisonous to animals, so keep clear. The two penthouse condos don’t have private balconies, just a shared rooftop patio space. The huge skylights overhead allow enough sunlight for all kinds of plants, though, brightening the hallway like a greenhouse.

Of course, I say, feeling heat rise on the back of my neck. We’ll be very careful.

We? Frick curls his lip down at Tink. I suppose you’ll be walking that thing up and down my hallway?

Thing? Thing? What kind of an ass refers to a living creature as a thing? "Her name is Tinkerbelle. And yes, we’ll be using our adjoining spaces. But I assure you, Tink’s very well behaved. You’ll hardly notice she’s here. Tink gives a couple of short barks, her back rigid. Shhh, it’s okay, girl." I pat her gently until her hackles smooth.

We’ll see about that. He gives me a skeptical glare, as if I’ve just asked him to buy into the moon landing being faked by NASA, before he marches down the hall to his end of the floor.

I give him a cheery wave with my middle finger and shut the door on the sound of his departing footfalls. Tink sneezes and then scampers back to her cushion and toys.

I storm into the kitchen to pour myself a big glass of OJ, tempted to go dump it over Nelson Frick’s head. Or on his frangipani tree. But it’s August, and late summer in Seattle always makes me a bit fitful. I’m still waking up at five-thirty every morning because I constantly feel like I should be prepping for my classes at Green Hills Elementary. I don’t work there anymore, but my internal teacher timer has yet to believe it. I can hardly believe it myself.

Suck it up, buttercup. The kids will probably never notice I’m gone.

I cut the power to my musical equipment and carefully stow the soundtracks away for later. Tink tilts on her haunches