Matched

  MATCHED

  S.E. Hall & Angela Graham

  Copyright © 2015 S.E. Hall & Angela Graham

  All rights reserved

  Editor: Jen Juneau

  Formatter: Joni Wilson

  Cover: LM Creation

  Cover Photographer: Jessica Tull

  Cover Model: Moe Link

  This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part,

  without written permission from the authors.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Dedication

  We’d like to dedicate this book to two amazing women of whom we are in awe:

  Lyndsey Gene and Jill Sava.

  We respect, admire, and strive to emulate you every single day.

  “What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters

  compared to what lies within us.”

  —Emerson

  Contents

  Meet the Cast

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  The Reunion

  Epilogue: Six Months Later

  Meet the Cast

  Oakley Abrams, 23—Lineman for the North Bay Ravens

  Harlow McWright, 22—Oakley’s first love and plus one

  Court Callahan, 25—Professional bull rider

  Wyatt Callahan, 23—Court’s manager, brother, and plus one

  Callie Cole, 22—Olympics gold-medal gymnast, USA

  Dana Myers, 22—Callie’s best friend and plus one

  Jasmine Cox, 24—Adult-entertainment star

  Jensen Hughes, 28—Adult-entertainment producer and Jasmine’s plus one

  Cruz McCall, 24—Freestyle motocross champion

  Emma McCall, 21—Cruz’s sister and plus one

  Peyton Price, 22—Actor

  Ivy Malone, 22—Actress/Peyton’s costar and plus one

  Rachel Gardner, 25—Comedian

  Miles Newman, 24—Rachel’s roommate, best friend, and plus one

  Nadia Minkin, 23—Supermodel

  Dalton Sharp, 25—Fitness trainer and Nadia’s plus one

  Chapter 1

  “Welcome to the beautiful island of Mahé in Seychelles! I’m your host, Tom Peters, and you,” says the man in front of us, spreading his arms out wide, “are the handpicked contestants for the premiere season of Date, Mate, Fate: Celebrity Edition.” He pauses for inserted applause. No, really—a crewman standing off-camera holds up a sign that says, “Insert Applause.”

  When the clapping has met the appropriate meter level, Tom continues. “Several faces here, I’m sure you’ll recognize; celebrities from an array of arenas, including sports, the big screen, and even the Olympics have been generous enough to take time from their grueling schedules to join us. And each of them was asked to invite a plus one—anyone—of their choosing, whom we also thank for being here.”

  I already feel cramped in my own skin, the endless barrage of cameras and crew filming our every move and reaction in full, intimidating effect. And to top it all off, I’ve just been declared a second-class citizen. Bonus.

  I don’t join in on the clapping and whistling; the others’ enthusiasm is far from what I’m feeling. Instead, I burrow deeper into Oakley’s side, shielding my face behind his burly arm and clamping down tighter on his hand. I’m so far removed from my comfort zone, consisting of community college and a job at an off-the-beaten-path truck stop in a Podunk town. But it appears I’ve also landed in a certain circle of hell I’m having trouble comprehending—despite the generous one-week notice.

  I’d spent countless nights dreaming of the day my first love, Oakley, would return to me. And when it finally happened, I was beyond ecstatic. I’d all but given up hope that he and I would ever be an “us” again, as hard as that is to admit. But then one day, just as suddenly as he’d left, there he was, ready to do whatever it took to prove we were meant to be together. It was a reappearance and proclamation more grandiose than that of my most fantastical dreams. And when he asked me to go away with him on an exotic getaway? My initial reaction was to jump at it—and him—with a giant “Yes!” I’d been excited at first, I truly had. Who wouldn’t be? A tropical island vacation with the man I love—what’s not to like?

  That naiveté was beaten down by a harsh dose of reality the minute I stepped off the plane. Schedules were shoved into my hands as women tugged at my hair and clothes, touching up my makeup literally as I walked. Cameras were so close to my face I had to mind my steps carefully so I didn’t walk right into them. “Invasive” and “overwhelming” would be compliments.

  And this? Not quite what I’d envisioned of Oakley’s invitation.

  “Relax, babe,” Oakley whispers, his mouth dipping to my ear. “It’s not as bad as it seems—just a bunch of bells and whistles for charity. You’ll be fine, I promise. I’ve got you.”

  I loosen my death grip on him and stand up a little straighter, but there’s still an undeniable riot of apprehension in my belly. I don’t want to be here.

  But if here means time with Oakley, I’ll put on my best game face and try.

  “All right, who’s ready to hear how this show works?” Tom shouts, regaining everyone’s attention and earning another round of whooping accolades. “We have here eight gentlemen, eight ladies,” he continues, smiling devilishly and rubbing his hands together, “and eight pairs of soulmates.”

  Sixteen heads flick in every direction, sizing up the others, most likely contemplating whom in the crowd are their mates and whom their competition.

  “Before arriving, you each underwent rigorous compatibility interviews, tests, and surveys. Our computers then compared all the results and matched up the eight couples here who are perfect for one another. We did our job—now your job is to figure out who those seven other matches are and boot them out of the house through what we like to call Soul Searches, leaving you and your soulmate the last ones standing and your charities the recipients of the money earned along the way.”

  I squeeze Oakley’s hand again, sweat beading at the back of my neck. Not only am I certain that computers are incapable of the credit Tom’s giving them, but the gamut of tests they had us take was ridiculous. And the two hours I’d spent with the “matchmaker,” answering questions and describing scenarios of the ideal life, felt more like a big waste of time than any semblance of a realistic way to find the one person I’m destined to be with.

  Oakley is the one for me—the only one. I know it and he knows it, and not because we both chose sunsets and long walks on the beach from some fabricated list. We know because of all the years we spent falling in love, young and open to new discoveries and real-life experiences, one after another.

  But duty, AKA his agent, calls…and here we are. Together.

  Tom goes on, disturbing my reverie. “You’ll have plenty of time to attempt to pinpoint your own soulmate—which I suggest you keep on the down low—and more importantly, to figure out and eliminate the other seven matches living right under your nose.”

  A
ll the girls here are donned in bikinis, which we were instructed to do before filming started. However, the others’ suits are much tinier than my own, and I don’t miss their eyes scouring up and down Oakley’s powerful body as though I’m not standing right by his side.

  As far as the other so-called “celebs” here, I’m having trouble separating the who’s who from the who’s not, such as myself, worthy only of a plus-one pass. A few of the faces look vaguely familiar, but then again, my job and four classes a week don’t leave me a lot of time to stay up to date on pop culture.

  “I know you’re all anxious to get started and acquainted,” Tom, who obviously loves the sound of his own voice, says, once again saving me from my own miserable musings. “So go find your room, change into your outfit of choice if you wish, and I’ll see you down on the beach at sunset for the Meet Your Mate Mixer!”

  He waves and flashes a smile, his veneers shining in all their blinding glory, and everyone cheers once more. The camera crew then emerges from the flowerbeds and around corners to follow the contestants inside.

  Oakley and I remain rooted in place…alone. Finally. At least a fourth of my tension eases. Thankful for the respite from the scrutinous limelight for now, I release my clutch on Oakley’s hand and blood flow slowly returns.

  “You ready to go check this place out?” Oakley asks, noticing I’m not exactly sprinting inside.

  “I guess.”

  He tilts my chin up to force eye contact and leans in, his thumb stroking over my cheek. He lowers his mouth to my ear and whispers, “Me and you, baby. You got that?”

  When he pulls back, I notice the confidence in his expression. Not since boarding the plane, still high on the residual haze of our final private lovemaking session at his condo, have I actually smiled like this.

  “Me and you,” I echo back. And just like that, his arms are around me. He grabs my ass and hauls me close, his mouth overtaking mine, tongue delving deep. It’s us again—me and the boy I grew up loving, who’s now the man the whole world will know is my soulmate.

  Something bustling behind Oakley catches my attention. When I open my eyes, I spot not one but two cameramen filming our interaction from both sides. One of the guys gives a thumbs up—the signal we were told means “Forget we’re here and stay in the moment.” But the moment is long gone, as is the comfort of Oakley.

  I peel his hands from my ass and slide out of his arms. Oakley shifts to see the men and just shakes his head. “Come on, let’s go find out where we’ll be staying and finish this inside.”

  He’s already pulling me toward the mansion we’ll all be sharing before I can reply. I have no doubt the inside will be as gorgeous as the exterior, with the beach behind us and a huge swimming pool, complete with swim-up bar and waterfall. The network definitely went all out, plopping us smack dab in the picture of “place to fall in love,” if ever there was one. I’d have loved it if Oakley had whisked just the two of us away to reconnect in a place like this.

  “You in a hurry?” I giggle, digging my heels into the ground to brake his lead.

  “Just to find the bed where I can get you alone.” He throws me a devious wink over his shoulder that relaxes every stubborn muscle inside me.

  We can do this.

  The optimism was fun the whole five minutes it lasted. I’d assumed that Oakley, one of the “celebrities,” would be afforded the luxury of selecting his sleeping quarters.

  But that wouldn’t make for a very interesting gameshow, now would it?

  Here’s the layout: There are four bedrooms, each containing two bunk beds—because apparently we’re all thirteen and back at summer camp. And to really broadcast the manipulation, our names are inscribed into gold plates at the end of the bunk we’ve been assigned to. Oh, and sticking with the whole “soulmate” theme, the rooms have celestial names.

  Room Saturn sleeps someone named Dana on top of bunk one with Peyton below her, then Jensen atop the second bed with Emma under him. Not that I know who any of these people are—I’m merely reading the nameplates. Since neither of us are in here, Oakley and I move to the next room.

  Jupiter houses Rachel on top of the first bunk and Wyatt on the bottom. Bunk two has Court on top and Nadia below. A tall guy with sandy brown hair, maybe twenty-five years old, stands beside a dresser, unpacking. Upon hearing us enter, he stops mid-fold on a pair of jeans and pivots in our direction with a dazzling smile.

  Oakley shakes his hand and introduces me to Court Callahan, whom Oakley explains is a badass bull rider who made rodeos worth watching again. Court takes my hand gently and, with his eyes on mine, presses a kiss to my knuckles. He oozes southern-gentleman charm that leaves me blushing.

  “Easy, there. Plenty other girls for you,” Oakley says, chuckling as he slips a possessive arm around my waist.

  “There sure are.” Court’s smile grows, and he returns to his dresser.

  When we leave the room, Oakley whispers, “He’s a good guy, from what I’ve heard. His brother Wyatt’s supposedly a different story.”

  I nod, already scanning the third quarters as we enter. Uranus sends a shard of panic ripping through me, my legs shaking slightly and throat constricting. Oakley’s arm winds around my shoulders, tugging me protectively against his side when he too has the realization.

  Bunk one is Ivy over Oakley, with Dalton above Callie in the other. But more so than the frightening fact that Oakley and I are not in the same room, I’m concerned with which of the bikini models equipped with flagrant, wandering eyes and enhanced breasts are Callie and Ivy? And which two strange men am I stuck in a room with?

  “It’s okay, Har. You’re only one room over, and it’s bunk beds, babe. Not exactly romantic,” he says softly, stifling a slight chuckle until he notices I’m not the least bit amused. “Hey, look at me.” He cups my cheek and steers my face to his. “You know I’d never let anything happen to you. Listen, I’ll try to get someone to switch with me if you promise to start breathing again, ’kay?” He kisses the crown of my head, drops his bag on his bunk, and guides us into the last planetary prison.

  Venus is my new home. I’ll be lying awake all night on the top bunk, a “Miles” hopefully getting more sleep than me below. And across from us (estimating even a foot away would be pushing it) is Cruz up high, Jasmine down low.

  “Hi, you must be Harlow.” A friendly-enough-looking girl walks in and offers me her hand, flushing crimson when Oakley snickers. “I’m Jasmine…Cox.”

  She’s gorgeous and absolutely flawless, with all-bronze skin, vast and vibrant aqua eyes, and a brilliant and seemingly genuine smile. And her chest? Let’s just say they should’ve put her in Jupiter, the largest planet.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Harlow McWright, and this…”

  I look to find Oakley gawking at every inch of her through glazed-over eyes, unable to contain a goofy grin. “Is my boyfriend, Oakley—”

  “Abrams, right?” she finishes for me, extending her hand to him in the same manner as she did me—no catty lean-in, or “look.” My optimism makes a hint of a comeback. “I’ve seen a few games. You’re good. Sorry about the playoffs.

  “So, Harlow,” she continues, regarding me again. She’s still smiling, but she drops her hand since Oakley never snaps to reality enough to shake it. “Looks like we’re roomies. I’m excited!”

  “M-me too,” I stammer in reply, attempting as much coherency as I can while distracted by Oakley’s lingering odd behavior.

  “You want me to show you the rest of the house?” she asks, and since Oakley’s a statue, I agree.

  I take a step forward to leave Oakley to the wheels spinning in his head when his hand darts out and grabs my arm, pulling me back into his chest. He presses a kiss to the top of my head and murmurs, “I love you.”

  My head dips back to catch his eyes, focused on me now, when I hear a soft sigh from Jasmine.

  “I can come back later…” she says as I turn her way.

  “Harlow’s yours for
now,” Oakley says quietly, then finally meets her stare. “Sorry—I was being a dick with the staring. Just weird meeting you in person.”

  I’m guessing Jasmine’s an actress since her breasts are too extreme for a model, and one Oakley has thought about—or more like fantasized about—on multiple occasions. I want to be annoyed, but let’s be real, if David Beckham strolled through that door right now, I’d be a drooling idiot.

  So I rise to my tiptoes and give Oakley a chaste kiss and smile. “See you around.”

  Jasmine and I have made it halfway down the hall when she answers my unspoken question. “I’m glad you’re not upset with your boyfriend. He’s a man, and unfortunately we all know they’ll catch a peek of someone like me at some point. I’m sorry. I don’t enjoy that type of reaction, and I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

  Now I’m the dazed idiot, as confused about what she’s saying as I am about why her eyes are watering. My stupefied silence prompts her to go on. “Harlow, I’m one of the celebrities here. My real name’s Miranda Miller; Jasmine Cox is my porn name.”

  Did she say porn?

  “I’m newly retired, but it hasn’t been officially announced yet. That’s why I’m here. My agent said I owed it to the company, since they gave me my start and I’m leaving them before my twenty-fifth birthday—unheard of in the industry.” Her head drops, as does her voice. “I won’t say I regret it, because it’s paid my bills and put a roof over my head, but now…” She looks up slowly with a bitter smile. “I’ve seen too much—watched good girls grow hard and jaded—and I don’t want that to happen to me. I need to be reminded that romance exists…that people fall in love because of a connection deeper than just flesh and hormones.”

  I say nothing, muted by her raw honesty and painful tone.

  “The part that I do hate is that I’ll forever be known by my videos. I just wish people could forget and look at me like a regular person again.” She shakes her head. “But I guess I can’t blame anyone but myself.”