The Contestant: The Constestant

By Myra Song

Mallory

I'm one girl. A girl who likes to pretend that she's someone else. Who likes to hide from a world who won't let her. 

I'm one celebrity. I won a show by losing a bunch of weight. If I'd known the price of winning, I never would have played. Now my body, which has regained some of its former curves, is under a microscope. It feels like my identity is tied solely to the number on a scale. 

It was one wrong number. I pretended to be someone I'm not and now? Now I'm in deep with two guys. Deep in lust and deep in trouble. 

Jacob and Ares

We're two guys. Two fabulously rich, self-made friends. 

We share a dark past. We share an apartment now, and a business we've put our backs and hearts into. We're going to share a future. When we see Mallory, with her vibrant red hair and delicious, curvy body, everything we have is at risk. Can we share a woman?

Two personalities. Jacob is a storm, dark and churning. He's a powderkeg, ready to blow. Ares is relaxed, golden like the summer sun. Cross him? He'll freeze you out. Two minds at odds, yet forever linked. 

Three lives thrown together. Three mouths greedily seeking passion. Six hands that can't get enough. Twenty toes peeking out from covers. A hundred reasons why this is a bad idea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Now and Wren Publishing
• Release date: Aug 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386454281

Book preview

Mallory

There are few things I love more than a wrong number. If I had to list my favorite things in order, it would go: real whipped cream, the bliss that comes when I’m not recognized in public, answering wrong numbers, and scarves. That last one is also an obsession, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, my phone is ringing and I don’t recognize the number. It’s local, which is rare. Raleigh tends to have more and more people moving here from out of state, so the nine-one-nine is becoming a memory. Either way, this clearly isn’t a contact of mine because my caller ID says unknown.

Other people let these calls roll to voicemail. Not me.

Hello?

Goddamnit, Adrianne, where are you and where the fuck are my spreadsheets? The deep baritone that is plowing into my ear sounds clipped and pissed.

Poor Adrianne.

If a normal person actually answers their wrong number call, here is where they’d correct the caller. I’m sorry, wrong number, have a nice day, yada yada yada.

I’m so sorry! I’m just out getting some coffee. I’ll have the spreadsheets ready this afternoon, I lie, trying to sound frantic. It isn’t hard. There’s a rush that comes from pretending to be someone else. I’m Adrianne now, and she’s in trouble, which means I’m in trouble, and this guy sounds like someone you don’t want pissed off at you. 

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? I’ve got Ares on the other line with LaMont,  assuring them that the costs aren’t going up much, I’ve got GenFiber on my line saying costs are skyrocketing, and I’ve still got the Defense Department hounding me about a contract and you’re getting fucking coffee?"

My palms are sweating and my heart is about to leap out of my chest. Department of Defense? Shit. This isn’t my normal pretend-to-be-someone else. This is major. I should tell him I’m fucking with him, but the words catch in my throat. As scared as I am for Adrianne, I’m pretty terrified for myself.

His voice lowers to a growl. Get me the reports and get your ass to the Umstead. You remember, right?

Balls. Say the truth, say it, Mallory, before you get someone fired—

Sure. The Umstead. Uh, just to be sure, you mean the hotel, not the park?

Silence. I mean, duh, of course he meant the hotel. Why would he send Adrianne, and the reports, to the park? It’s just that I’m freaking out here, not wanting to let whoever this is down anymore than I have already, and I need to stall for time.

I’ll see you there at four, or I’ll be sending you termination papers. Click.

Wow. Wow. I’m feeling electric. Like how a person feels right after they almost get in a car crash, or right after your brother jumps out to scare you at night. A near-miss. Shaking. Exhilarated.

Briefly, I’m sorry for Adrianne. I definitely dug her grave a little deeper with my antics, and that does make me an asshole. On the other hand, I doubt she’s as incompetent as this guy thinks. He’s the one who dialed a wrong number; what makes him so perfect? Anger begins to bubble in me for Adrianne, too. After all, who speaks to their employees like that? Jerks, that’s who. I’ve had men speak to me like that before and let me tell you—I didn’t deserve it, and it sucked. Majorly.

Maybe I’m doing Adrianne a favor. I know she can do better. She’s a smart, competent woman who’s just stuck under the oppressive thumb of Mr... well, whoever he was.

You’re making excuses, Mallory.

I am. Suddenly, I’m worried about Adrianne. In a moment of what I’ll probably end up calling madness, I decide to go to the Umstead. Just to make sure she remembered the meeting. And, truthfully?

I want to see the man who called.

THE UMSTEAD HAS A BAR with a lounge and an area that serves afternoon tea. Immediately I scratch the last one—the guy on the phone didn’t sound like a tea person at all. I can’t imagine having a business meeting at four in the bar either. This leaves Herons, the restaurant that serves the hotel.

Herons is one of the places that put fine dining on the map in Raleigh. My credit card is going to hate me for this, but my mouth is already salivating. It’s been a while since I let myself eat out, and especially at a place as nice as this one. When you’re me, you don’t want to be recognized in public, especially in a restaurant. Fortunately, my frugal lifestyle meant this wasn’t going to break my bank.

When I step up to ask for a table, though, there’s no host. A quick scan shows there aren’t any tables sat either. Finding the sign, I see that’s because they don’t open until five thirty.

But he was certain the meeting was at four!

I glance at my watch. It’s three fifty-five now.

Rushing, I check the bar again. No one who looks to be waiting, no one in suits. Just a few women having an afternoon spritzer before their spa appointments and a couple of older men hunched over computers.

My heart drops. If it’s one of them, well...

I guess I just feel like it’s a little anti-climatic. Now I have no food to look forward to, no Adrianne to apologize silently to, and no mystery man to glare at.

That’s what you get for meddling, Mallory.

Reluctantly, I turn to leave and glance once more at Herons. Standing and waiting are three men. All I can see are their backs, but they’re all dressed impeccably in tailored suits. One is much taller than the others, his shoulders broad and muscled. The suit seems to be straining that perfect amount there, like his tailor wants you to notice how ripped he is, a hint of the power that could erupt from the Italian wool.

The hair is dark and not cut as close as I’d expect. It’s long enough to see a little curl begin at the nape. A tease that invites a tongue.

Turn around, I will at him with my mind. I’m one hundred percent sure this is mystery phone guy, and my curiosity is burning now. My eyes are already narrowing, and I’m going to throw so much hate at him when I see his face—

He turns. My eyes widen and my breath catches.

Holy fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. Mystery Phone Jerk is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. It’s like looking at a magazine cover come to life.

Mystery Man has olive skin and a hint of dark stubble, with a jawline that would be just as much at home on a Spanish beach as it is in the hotel. God, I fucking love a man in a suit, and he wears his like a second skin. His eyebrows are pressed tight, and his jaw is clenched, and that solidifies it—this is the man who chewed me out. Or Adrianne, I guess.

He’s looking at his watch, his eyes glued to the front door. A waiter comes and escorts the other two men into Herons. That’s interesting—they’re definitely still closed. This meeting must be important if they’re able to schedule something before opening.

He said Department of Defense. That’s important, for sure.

Sexy Mystery Man is getting pissed. I can see it in the tight lines of his shoulders and the way he’s beginning to pace. My palms are sweating and I’m worried for Adrianne.

If she doesn’t show, I’m going to go explain.

He’ll be mad, but I refuse to let a girl be fired just because I am, well, a pretender. Still, getting yelled at is probably what I deserve and Adrianne isn’t at fault.

The man’s shoulders sink a little when the door swings open. It isn’t a woman that walks in, though. It’s another man, and I can barely believe it—he’s just as good looking as Mystery Man. He looks kind of like a Viking, but in a suit. His looks are more cute, less devastatingly handsome, but he still makes my heart skip a beat.

They are like night and day. Same ridiculous height, but Viking is all pale Nordic skin and blond hair to Mystery Man’s dark and Mediterranean. His blond hair is cut short, but his face is covered with a honey-colored beard. It’s brushed and neat, and I didn’t know I had a thing for beards until now, but he’s persuaded me.

They stand together, talking. Mystery Man is still angry, his hands waving and his jaw still clenched. Viking is relaxed, hands in his pockets. Hell, even his suit is relaxed. No tie and the top button undone.

Everything about them is opposite. Their coloring, their temperament. And yet, as I’m watching their dynamic, there’s something symbiotic about it. The way their bodies move, their faces shift as they talk—it’s a dance. These two men know each other well.

I wonder if they’re lovers.

My skin heats when I try to imagine it. Don’t ask me to explain why I find the thought so sexy and magnetic—I couldn’t tell you. But just the thought of the two men, naked, together—I’m going to need to spend some time in a cold shower later.

Mystery Man is seriously about to blow a gasket and Viking is making it worse by laughing. The time is now five minutes after four. Positive that this is about Adrianne, or the lack of Adrianne, I gather my courage. Time to fess up.

My palms smooth down the pencil skirt I decided to wear. It pairs well with a silk blouse. I’m overdressed for a confession, but I know the outfit compliments my curves. Thank God for stylists. Mine, Ann, keeps me from looking like a complete ass. At least as far as clothing goes.

Every footstep toward them is like I’m dragging concrete. They’re so engaged in conversation that it isn’t until I’m right next to them that they realize I’m there.

What the fuck can I do for you? Mystery Man sneers. It’s definitely phone guy. Same rich baritone and angry accusatory tone. I start to get mad, but I’m also turned on by the deep cadence and ultra-masculine way he speaks. I need to get out of the house more.

Dude, Viking interrupts, giving his friend (partner? lover?) a hard look. This close, I realize I had him pegged wrong. I thought he was a teddy bear, the nice guy. But as his aquamarine eyes spear me, I realize it is just a front.

Both of these men feel dangerous. It sends a thrill through me.

I-I’m sorry to interrupt—

Then don’t, Mystery Man snaps. We’re waiting on someone for an important meeting.

She probably isn’t coming, I retort. Hot or not, I’m beginning to get a little fed up by him.

How the hell would you know?

Because she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t have the reports for GenFiber or whatever.

Both pairs of eyes narrow into slits and suddenly I am being crowded by two tall, sexy, and intimidating men. Viking has slid behind me, blocking my exit, while Mystery Man is in my face, his finger pressing into my sternum. My heart is pounding a hundred beats a second, I’m sure of it.

How do you know about that?

Um, see, funny story. You called me—

No, I didn’t.

I push back, stepping into his finger and his face. We’re close now. I can feel the whisper of his breath on my face, our lips a fraction of an inch from each other. It’s the weirdest conversation of my life, but as scary as these guys are? We’re in a public place. And whether I like to admit it or not, I’m kind of recognizable. So I gamble that they’re not gonna do a damned thing.

"You did, Mr. Adrianne-let-me-cow-you-with-my-super-macho-demands! Let’s get something clear. I don’t know Adrianne, but if you