Matched
Authors: Angela Graham,S.E. Hall
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
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 y
our
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.”
All 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.
