All of the Above

By Quinn Anderson

Brendon isn’t in a rut, per se — he just always seems to be in-between things. Jobs. Degrees. Boyfriends. He never finishes what he starts. The perfect path is out there somewhere, and if he can just figure out what it is, he’s certain everything else will fall into place.

The last thing he expects is to meet his soul mate in the pages of a magazine quiz. “Who Is Your Perfect Man?” by Matthew Kingston seems like a road map to his future husband: the author himself. Brendon may not have his life figured out, but if Matt is as romantic as his quiz, Brendon can check “true love” off his to-do list.

When Brendon fakes a meet-cute between them, Matt proves to be as wonderful as he hoped. The more Brendon gets to know him, the harder he falls. But Brendon has a confession to make: how can he explain to Matt that he arranged their “fated” meeting? Brendon can’t tell if he’s found his soul mate, heartache, or all of the above.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Riptide Publishing
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781626496675

Book preview

Riptide Publishing

PO Box 1537

Burnsville, NC 28714

www.riptidepublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

All of the Above

Copyright © 2017 by Quinn Anderson

Smashwords Edition

Cover art: Natasha Snow, natashasnowdesigns.com

Editors: Carole-ann Galloway, Sarah Lyons, May Peterson, maypetersonbooks.com

Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [e-mail].

ISBN: 978-1-62649-667-5

First edition

November, 2017

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Brendon isn’t in a rut, per se—he just always seems to be in-between things. Jobs. Degrees. Boyfriends. He never finishes what he starts. The perfect path is out there somewhere, and if he can just figure out what it is, he’s certain everything else will fall into place.

The last thing he expects is to meet his soul mate in the pages of a magazine quiz. Who Is Your Perfect Man? by Matthew Kingston seems like a road map to his future husband: the author himself. Brendon may not have his life figured out, but if Matt is as romantic as his quiz, Brendon can check true love off his to-do list.

When Brendon fakes a meet-cute between them, Matt proves to be as wonderful as he hoped. The more Brendon gets to know him, the harder he falls. But Brendon has a confession to make: how can he explain to Matt that he arranged their fated meeting? Brendon can’t tell if he’s found his soul mate, heartache, or all of the above.

This book is dedicated to Aisha, a wonderful, sweet person who volunteered to help me with my abysmal conversational Hindi. Thank you so much, Aisha. Without you, this book would be like Babel Fish: about thirty percent accurate.

About All of the Above

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Also by Quinn Anderson

About the Author

More like this

Hey, Soul Sister came over the ceiling speakers for the thirteenth time that day. Brendon contemplated exiting the mall simply so he could go out to the parking lot and hurl himself in front of an SUV.

He didn’t want to die, per se. Just get maimed enough so that he could leave work and go home. It was either that or allow the constant barrage of mild, inoffensive adult alternative music to eat away at him until he snapped. If he walked out the door right now, he’d be doing the general public a favor.

But he didn’t. Sigh. He had bills to pay, same as everyone else. He needed this job. Although, if the SUV broke his legs, he could sue the driver . . .

Oblivious to his grisly thoughts, a steady stream of shoppers sailed placidly past him. Most of them avoided looking at Brendon. One of the few benefits of working at a mall kiosk: no one wanted to make eye contact, lest he take that as an invitation to pounce. But a few sets of eyes lingered on the flat stomach his ice-blue crop top bared. Predominantly male eyes, he noted.

Sometimes, their gazes would trail up to his face. What happened next never failed to make Brendon smile. Upon realizing he was a guy, they jerked their heads away, looking inexplicably furious. Brendon liked to think he was doing his little part for feminism. Served dudes right for ogling every inch of skin they saw like the world was their personal meat market.

His phone rested on the glass display case he was currently leaning against. He touched the home button, and the screen lit up. It was 7:17 p.m. Shit. Still two more hours to go.

He stood up and stretched to his full height of five foot ten. A head rush hit him, and the polished tile beneath his sequined sneakers swam. Tilting his chin back, he focused on the pink sign above his kiosk, which read Hairway to Heaven in white letters. His opinion of the pun changed daily, depending on what sort of mood he was in.

A second later, his vision cleared. He should really stop draping himself over things. Or maybe see a doctor. Good one. With what money?

He glanced around and immediately wished he hadn’t. The mall’s sameness was oppressive: off-white storefronts, gray ceiling tiles, beige floors, and frosted white lights humming overhead. It all blended together into a lackluster sea. Even the people walking past him were just a trickle of blank faces, their features melding together until he swore the same twenty people passed him in a never-ending loop.

It was the lights that did it for him, interspersed at intervals like symmetric, unnerving stars. And the lack of windows. It couldn’t be healthy to not know what time of day it was at any given moment. And then of course, there was the music.

Brendon really hated the mall.

Just as he was reconsidering getting maimed, a girl broke away from the throng and approached. There was a wariness to her expression that made him want to roll his eyes. He had no idea why customers thought he was going to bite. If anything, he’d charge extra for that.

Hi, he greeted her when she was close enough. He flashed what he hoped was a winning smile. How are you?

I’m fine. She flicked beautiful, curly hair over her shoulder. Brendon went into salesman mood and assessed it without thinking: good shine, healthy chestnut color, and minimal split ends for that length. But her curls were perfect, which meant she probably wasn’t interested in the free flat-ironing they offered.

What can I help you with, honey?

Which way is Starbucks?

Ugh. Brendon hated when people used him as a living directory. But cute girls were what made his job tolerable, so she got a pass. He flashed another thousand-watt smile and pointed her in the right direction. She thanked him and wobbled off on ankle-breaking spiked heels. More power to her. Brendon knew as well as anyone that beauty was pain.

He checked his reflection in one of the lightbulb-lined mirrors on either side of the kiosk. Tired green eyes looked back at him, set between pale, plucked eyebrows and high cheekbones. He’d always thought there was a feline quality to his sleek features, but right now, he looked more like a droopy basset hound.

His hair was holding up well, though, as it should, considering how much effort he put into it. Every shoulder-length blond strand was as straight as when he’d blown them out this morning. The royal-blue ends were striking against his pastel clothes. And the dull mall backdrop, for that matter. He was like a sparkly little hummingbird in a drab haystack.

He snapped a quick selfie and uploaded it to Instagram. God bless filters. Making him look less like a zombie since 2010.

Someone walked up behind him in the mirror. He spun around on autopilot. How can I help you? He blinked. Oh. Hey, Areesh.

Try not to sound so disappointed. Areesh held his muscular arms out as if to invite a hug. Happy to see me?

As always.

Areesh was the tall, dark, and handsome to Brendon’s pale and pastel. Brendon spent a good portion of every workday trying to convince Areesh to let him play with his silky black hair, but Areesh never allowed it, the tease. He owned an endless supply of V-neck shirts that he used to display his broad shoulders and thick chest hair. It was a look that would make most of the bears Brendon knew chuck in the flannel towel.

But even with all that going on, Areesh was somehow straight as a wicket. It was a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare.

Brendon put his phone down. What can I do for you?

Areesh gave him a sour look. Don’t use your retail voice on me. It’s creepy.

Sorry. Brendon cleared his throat. I’ve been working for too long. It crawls under your skin.

Don’t I know it. But I brought you something that should brighten up your day. Areesh had a canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder. He held it out to Brendon.

Brendon took it, wobbling beneath the weight, and set it on the ground. What’s this?

Open it and see.

Brendon reached in and pulled out a handful of magazines. Their glossy covers gleamed. "Oh, Cosmo! Where did you get these?"

Sasha cleaned out our closet yesterday and found them. She wanted them to go to someone who would appreciate them. Naturally I thought of you.

"Tell wifey I said merci. Brendon rifled through the bag. Vogue. People. All the greatest hits. I am definitely ready to read a hundred tips on how to have my best sex yet."

Areesh shook his head. Shameless. Anyway, you can thank her yourself. You work tomorrow, right?

Yup. And the day after that, and the day after that. And every day until my cute butt is outta cosmetology school and set up in some fab salon somewhere.

It’s nice to have goals. Areesh looked past him. And customers. Show time, tiger.

Brendon dutifully turned away, but he whispered, You sound like a fifties stage manager, before greeting the two women who had approached his kiosk. They were his usual fare: early twenties, giggly, with Frappuccinos in their hands and their hair in messy buns. Brendon made best friends with a dozen of them a day, and he honestly loved it. They always preened over his hair and complimented his shoes. And they told the best stories while he was fixing them up. Nothing like a little gossip to help the long hours pass.

He gave both of them the complimentary flat-ironing, talking up their hair the whole time. He never lied to his customers. They all had something that set them apart, be it beautiful natural waves, thickness, color, whatever.

In this case, one of them had some serious bleach damage but shine that just wouldn’t stop. He recommended a ceramic-plated iron to her, and to his delight, she bought one. Her friend went with a leave-in conditioner and a calming serum he swore by. A hundred and eighty dollars later, they waltzed off a bit more glamorous, and Brendon packed an extra nine dollars onto his paycheck. It wasn’t much, but bonuses were bonuses.

After they left, he sank back into beige-tinged boredom. He wasn’t a pushy salesperson—he’d sooner wear Crocs than hound people to let him do their hair—which meant he ended up having a lot of downtime. If he were smart, he’d pull out one of his textbooks and study for his esthiology class. But even skin care couldn’t rouse his interest this close to the end of the work day.

Instead, he dug into Areesh’s tote