British Bachelor: A Hero Club Novel

by K. K. Allen

  To my assistant, aka: my boss, Lindsey, who is always reading my mind and sending me a million and one reminders, always with a sweet and friendly demeanor. I love you forever.

  To my Facebook street team, Angsters, my Instagram team, Booksters, and to my reader group, Forever Young. I love you babes with all my heart. Thank you for hanging with me and giving me some of my favorite places to hang on the interwebs.

  To my book cover designer, Talia, at BookCoverKingdom! You are a dream to work with, thank you so much for giving me the best cover possible for this book.

  To Christopher John at CJC Photography! We’ve been friends for nearly four years now and I’m so happy to finally get to work with you. Thanks for finding me a dreamy real-life Brit to be my Liam.

  As always, to every reader and blogger who picks up this story (and made it this far), I couldn’t do this without you. Thank you!

  Much Love and HEAs,

  K.K. Allen

  Books by K.K. ALLEN

  Sweet & Inspirational Contemporary Romance

  Up in the Treehouse

  Under the Bleachers

  Through the Lens

  Sweet and Sexy Contemporary Romance

  Center of Gravity

  Falling from Gravity

  Defying Gravity

  The Trouble with Gravity

  Super Steamy Contemporary Romance

  Dangerous Hearts

  Destined Hearts

  British Bachelor

  Romantic Suspense

  Waterfall Effect

  A Bridge Between Us

  Young Adult Fantasy

  The Enchanted

  The Equinox

  The Descendants

  Short Stories and Anthologies

  Soaring

  Echoes of Winter

  Begin Again

  Spring Fling

  MORE INFO HERE

  About the Author

  K.K. Allen is a USA Today bestselling and Romantic Times award-winning author who writes heartfelt and inspirational contemporary romance stories. K.K. is a native Hawaiian who graduated from the University of Washington with an Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences degree and currently resides in central Florida with her ridiculously handsome little dude who owns her heart.

  K.K.'s publishing journey began in June 2014 with a young adult contemporary fantasy trilogy. In 2016, she published her first contemporary romance, Up in the Treehouse, which went on to win the Romantic Times 2016 Reviewers' Choice Award for Best New Adult Book of the Year.

  With K.K.'s love for inspirational and coming of age stories involving heartfelt narratives and honest emotions, you can be assured to always be surprised by what K.K. releases next.

  www.KKAllen.com

  DON’T MISS THIS

  Keep reading for an excerpt of Dangerous Hearts, Book 1, A Stolen Melody Duet

  Prologue

  Lyric, 15 Years Old

  “Lyric, stop!”

  My dad’s calling after me, but it’s too late. I’m already running to my hiding place—a dark corner beneath the stairwell fitted with a single couch. He won’t find me here. I fall onto a blue and white checkered cushion, and it releases a hefty poof of dust as a heaving sob bubbles up my throat.

  I should have known it would come to this. The last three years have been too perfect. Too … normal. Life is safer on the road, where instability is comfort.

  This is what betrayal feels like. Like someone’s just thrown my heart in the blender and set it on a slow grind. My daddy has mutilated my heart.

  And I, apparently, watch too many horror films.

  Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice breaks through my thoughts.

  “Are you okay?”

  I jump and swivel to find the source of the strange voice, but there’s an echo and I’m not sure where to look. My heart rate spikes and my nails dig into the ratty seat that once provided so much comfort.

  “Up here!” the voice calls. It sounds like it belongs to a teenage boy.

  I look up. The outline of a face peers back at me between the stairs. Someone is there. Watching me. Listening to me.

  I should be scared.

  “W-what are you doing?” I call out, hoping it’s anger he hears over the rattling in my chest. “No one is allowed back here.”

  The boy chuckles. “Well, then you know why. I’m a rebel. And so are you.”

  I’m not sure how he managed to sneak backstage. Security at the Aragon is tighter than most venues I’ve been to. And at just fifteen years old, I’ve been to most of them.

  “Are you here for the show?” I ask, cringing. Why else would he be here?

  “Not really. You?”

  “Not really,” I mimic his nonchalance. Of course I’m here for the show. I’m always here for the shows. I practically live here, but that’s none of his business.

  “If you’re done crying, you can come with me.”

  I glare into the darkness. Rude. And a little bit creepy, honestly. He may have piqued my interest, but I won’t hide my distrust. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s a surprise. Come up here and I’ll show you.”

  Isn’t that what serial murderers say before they lock their victims up and torture them slowly? My heart is pounding. It should be fear beating itself out of me, screaming for me to run and find my dad. But it’s something else.

  Something dangerous.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m someone who is about to blow your mind and make you forget whatever it was you were just crying about. I already have, haven’t I?”

  There’s a tug at the corner of my lips. His arrogance is both distasteful and amusing.

  I push away from the couch and walk slowly to the stairs. The boy is there, still blanketed in darkness, but a dim light from above illuminates his face. He appears to be about my age. And he’s smiling. Or maybe smirking—I can’t tell. His eyes are kind, and his posture reveals a natural confidence that’s almost calming.

  There’s something about his expression too—something that reminds me of … me. Not even the dark can conceal the loneliness behind his rough edges. Maybe even some anger. Or maybe it’s his dark brown hair, styled into a fauxhawk, that gives him an edge. Whatever it is tugs at my curiosity.

  “Well,” I say to him with an exaggerated shrug and a step forward. “What’s this surprise?”

  He extends a hand, never lifting his eyes from mine. When I fail to accept it right away, he raises a brow as a challenge.

  I look down and stare at his offering, conflicted. This is beyond strange, and so unlike me to even consider his offer. But I also feel the wave of excitement roll through me, drowning out all reason—and because of that incorrigible rush of adrenaline, I place my hand in his.

  He turns and leads me up the stairs to the roof, and when we reach the top, he opens the door with a rusty metal key. Sounds of the city blast us as he steps outside first, propping the door open with his back and letting me slip past him. Adrenaline surges through me, pushing me forward, overriding every alarm screaming in my subconscious.

  “How did you get that?” I gesture to the key in his hand, unsure if he can hear the shakiness in my voice beneath the blare of nighttime traffic.

  “I stole it.”

  At least he’s honest.

  He’s still holding my hand when the door slams behind us. I jump again, warming immediately when I hear his low chuckle.

  We step out onto the roof and I see the rest of the space. It’s wide and open, not much to it. I start to pause, but the boy continues to pull me toward the edge of the roof. My heart seizes in my chest and I try to plant my heels into the cement. This is as far as I want to go.

  He tugs on my hand again. “Come on.”

  I think my heart just might be pumping hard enough to push its way out my throat. I can’t do heights. My feet become heavy, and by the time we’re a few feet from the edge, they become anchors tethering me in place. The boy turns to face me, a look of admonishmen
t on his face at my resistance.

  And then he sees me. Recognizes my fear. I watch as the rough edges of his features soften once more. He steps closer. When he wraps his arms around me, his warmth shocks me. The boy is caring, and the heart beating against the wall of his dark gray cable-knit sweater is loud. Strong. Good.

  I’m shaking in his arms, but it’s no longer because we’re near the edge of the roof. “Geez, girl. Okay, okay, no pressure.”

  After a few seconds, my breathing returns to normal, but I don’t pull away. I'm too afraid to see how close we are to the edge. As if reading my mind, he pulls me toward the center of the rooftop and releases me. We sit facing each other, the moonlight casting a faint glow on us both.

  He eyes me curiously. “Are you afraid of heights?”

  I nod as I take in a long pull of air through my nose.

  “Okay.” He draws the word out, thinking. “Do you want to tell me why you were crying down there?”

  For a second, my thoughts collide into each other. I’m unsure of how much I really want to tell him. He’s been nice up until this point, but I don’t even know him. I do know that he dresses and smells too nice to be a runaway. And for some reason, I can’t seem to forget the warmth of his hold.

  I swallow. I think I can tell him the truth. He may be the first person I’ve ever confided in about my parents, but if I’m going to talk to someone about it, why not a stranger? He can judge me all he wants, and I never have to see him again.

  “My dad is sending me to live with my mother.”

  “And you don’t like her.” It’s not a question.

  My jaw hardens. “I like it here.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Our eyes travel away from each other, past the exterior wall of the roof and toward the Chicago skyline. In our silence, with the sounds of traffic humming four stories below, a calm washes over me. I’m terrified of what comes next for me. I’m angry that I’ve been given no choice. But in this moment, I let it all go. Thanks to this strange boy who dragged me to a rooftop to cheer me up.

  Everything about him so far has surprised me. He gets it. At least that’s how it seems. And now that I’m allowing myself to steal longer glances, I can see that he’s cute. Definitely boyfriend material, at least in his looks. Still figuring out the personality, though.

  “How did you know you could get up here, anyway? I know the hidden spaces of this place better than anyone, but I’ve had three years to explore.” I narrow my eyes at him—as if that will do anything. He’s already lured me up here and become familiar with too many of my weaknesses.

  He shrugs. “I pay attention.” A grin emerges through his tough expression, exposing a shallow dimple in his cheek. My heart jumps in my chest. “I saw some guy up here earlier today when we arrived, so I knew it was possible, and it didn’t take me long to find a spare key.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh, then lean back on my hands, tilting my head at him. “I think I like you.”

  His raised eyebrow gives him away. He’s reading way too much into that. Crap. “No, no,” I backpedal. “I just mean you were a little creepy back there. You know, voice in the shadows and all. But you’re kind of cool now. And I like your hair.”

  He grins. “Thanks.”

  I laugh again, this time nervously. I like your face, too.

  “How old are you, anyway?” I ask.

  “Fifteen. You?”

  “Same. You’re not from here.”

  He shrugs. “My mom lives in California, my dad is from here, so it’s easier to say I’m from all over. I don’t like to claim any one space as home.”

  I frown because that’s exactly how I’d prefer to be. It beats the reality I’m facing now. I’m about to leave a place that I love. The only place I could ever think to call home. And I may have just found someone who understands.

  “One day we won’t need our parents,” he says, cutting into my thoughts. His words are few, but heavy.

  “What?”

  “If it helps with whatever you’re going through right now, just remember that. Remember that one day, you’ll be on your own anyway, and there’s nothing they can do or say to hurt you. You’re living this life for you, not them. Play by their rules now, sure, but only you get to decide where you’re going.”

  He’s right, but it doesn’t resolve how lost I already feel by the thought of moving and not being with my father. We were happy here. At least, I was happy here.

  I want to ask the boy why he’s here. Why he seems angry. Where he lives in California. I have so many questions, but I’m distracted as I track his movements. He slides closer until one of his legs is pressed against mine, his face so close, and all the words become a jumble on the tip of my tongue.

  “You’re pretty,” he says, examining me as if I’m abstract art. His eyes flicker between my eyes and mouth, and oh, how I want to be his muse. Air crackles with an unmistakable energy, and before I can stop it, a fire spreads over me—my skin, paint to his canvas.

  His closeness awakens my senses in a way that only sees him, feels him, hears him, smells him…

  And just as I wish for a taste, he starts to lean in.

  His lips are nearly to mine, so near I think I stop breathing, but just for a second. There’s a commotion at the entrance of the roof that startles us apart. Our heads turn toward the sound of rattling of metal against wood … silence … a shuffle of feet against cement … and then a bang of a door crashing against the wall.

  My dad’s voice booms through the air, a hint of panic in his voice. “Pumpkin, are you up here?”

  My heart jumps into my throat while my eyes grow wide. “I’m here,” I call out in a rush and pull away from the boy. My dad will never understand what I’m doing with a strange boy on a dark roof late in the night. When I should be home packing. Giving the boy one fleeting glance as I stand, I hope my hesitation to leave him is clear. His eyes register curiosity, but nothing else.

  My dad calls for me again and I jump. “Coming, Dad.”

  Tearing my eyes from the boy’s with a final apologetic glance, I run. When I round the edge of the wall, I find my dad gripping the open rooftop door. His expression reveals concern and curiosity more than anything else. For that, I’m grateful. My father rarely gets angry, and he never gets angry at me. But I’ve never given him anything to get angry about. A strange boy luring me to the rooftop at night might bring out a different side to him.

  “How did you get up here?”

  “Uh … the door was open,” I lie, stepping past him to the stairwell. “I just needed some air.”

  My dad pulls me back and wraps his arms around me, squeezing tight. He’s happy I’m safe, and as upset at him as I am, this simple gesture warms my heart. I can’t imagine my mother ever showing concern for my well-being. “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I know you’re upset, but you can’t be up here alone. Go home. Get some sleep. We’ll talk about the arrangements in the morning, okay?”

  The arrangements. My stomach churns, but I nod. I won’t let him see me cry. “Okay.”

  He shuts the door of the roof and we make our way down the steps. As my dad ushers me out of the venue and into a taxi, I look up to the roof one last time. The boy is still there, wearing the same expression I left him with—one I know I’ll never forget.

  Hope.

  I never did get that taste.

  Chapter 1

  Lyric

  Yes. My name is Lyric. As in song lyrics. As in the music that was playing during my conception. Because my parents are—were—rock stars.

  I’m not complaining. I’ll take Lyric over any of the other asinine possibilities they came up with back then. One drawback: it’s not a name that goes unnoticed. Ever.

  I’m known as Lyric Cassidy, daughter of a rock icon and a pop goddess who had a swift affair in the nineties. Although my parents were never married and broke up when I was five, they are still one of the most popular couples to grace the music industry. And let’s just s
ay, it makes my passion for the music industry … complicated.

  Let me rephrase that.

  My fate in the music industry is sealed. Nothing about that is complicated—and therein lies the problem.

  Music is my everything. It’s the air I breathe. The beat I walk to. The blood in my veins. It’s what lulls me to sleep at night. What carries me through the storms of my life … like the one that just passed.

  Except I’m not a musician myself. Not professionally, anyway. I just want to be surrounded by music, however and whenever possible. But the limelight? Well, that’s not for me.

  It was always a given I’d fall for a rock star. The bad boy type with the raspy vocals who could make an entire sold-out arena swoon. I fell for one, and then he broke my heart when he fell into bed with my best friend. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. It wasn’t to anyone else. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t know the importance of shielding my heart like my life depended on it. I know now.

  The affair left me with a gaping hole in my heart, aching to be filled. And so I filled it with music. And then my heart was sealed, wrapped up in a tangle of guitar strings, never to be infiltrated again. Have you ever tried flicking a guitar string? Those fuckers are strong.

  My bosses were made aware of my situation before I even told them I wanted a new assignment. They had another job lined up for me—by pure coincidence, I’m sure. The job was mine if I wanted it, they said, and I didn’t hesitate for a second. It wasn’t until they sent the contract over and I saw who I would be working for that I thought to rescind my acceptance. But in the end, I signed, desperate to leave my mess of a life in Seattle. And just like that, the job was mine.