Treble Maker

by Annabeth Albert

  Delivered Fast

  Sure, Chris O’Neal has problems. His restaurant is still co-owned by his ex. His flannel-and-tattoos style is making him accidentally trendy. He can’t remember the last time he went out and had fun. But he’s not lonely, he’s driven. And the hot bakery delivery boy is not his problem, no matter how sweet his buns. Chris is old enough to know Lance Degrassi’s sculpted good looks and clever double entendres spell nothing but trouble. Lance is still in college—he should be hitting the clubs and the books, chasing guys his own age, not pursuing some gruff motorcycle-riding workaholic. Especially when he’ll be leaving for grad school in a few months. But Lance keeps hanging around, lending a hand, charming Chris to distraction. Maybe some steaming hot no-strings indulgence won’t hurt. Then again, maybe it will . . .

  Love Me Tenor

  Chapter One

  The heater was broken again. Trevor shifted around, trying to find a stray bit of warmth from the ancient radiator in his tiny dorm room. The pile of textbooks on the foot of his bed went skittering to the floor as he adjusted the phone to his ear.

  “Come on. You’re perfect boy band material,” Dawn said, her voice all sparkle despite the bad cell phone connection. She was in L.A., home of sun and happy people and the best, most terrifying three months of Trevor’s life.

  “A boy band? You want me to be in a boy band?” Here in Iowa, land of reality and final exams and thirty-seven days from homelessness, Trevor couldn’t match Dawn’s enthusiasm. His friend was a production assistant in L.A., working her way towards an assistant producer gig. Everything was awesome in her world, including the new show she’d landed on.

  “Yeah. You’re exactly the kind of harmless cute that wins over audiences.”

  “Harmless cute? You mean I look fifteen?”

  “Ok. Hot in a non-threatening manner? That better?” Dawn sighed, and there was a sound of papers shuffling. “Look. I loved you on the a cappella show. And I’m sorry that didn’t pan out for you, but you’re photogenic and you’ve got a decent voice and I really have to fill these slots so we can make housing arrangements—”

  “Hang on. Did you say housing?” Trevor looked at his gray cement block walls and college issued furniture that were only his for exactly thirty-seven more days. And then? Nothing. No job had miraculously appeared, and he had no savings for deposit on a place and no lead on a roommate situation.

  “Yes. All the competing boy bands will be sharing a house together. That will be a big part of the show. Meals will be included too. I’ve got the perfect group to put you in. A bunch of other guys like you. It’ll be terrific. We’ll pay for you to fly to Vancouver next month.”

  “Not L.A.?”

  “Vancouver is cheaper for filming. I’ll get you paperwork for making sure you have a passport. So are you in?”

  No, I’m out. Out, out, out. Out had landed him in this predicament. He’d been stupid enough to come out to his family at spring break. Now he had no job waiting for him, no money, no hope of money, and no place to live after graduation. His dad’s harsh words still rung in his ears and his mother’s bleak face wasn’t something he’d forget anytime soon.

  And yeah, he could sing, but the ability to harmonize was hardly a meal ticket. He’d put his a cappella days behind him and buckled down to school, but for what? A degree he was never going to use? A family he no longer had to impress?

  “Trevor? You there? Can I count on you?”

  “Yeah. I’m in.” What the hell. He could sing some teeny-bopper tunes while his life fell apart. At least he’d have a roof over his head. And Dawn said the other guys were like him. Probably fellow a cappella geeks. Yeah, this could work. He pulled his sweatshirt closer around him. Anything had to be better than this limbo land.

  “You brought your luggage?” The receptionist looked at Trevor like he’d brought a snake to the movie studio offices instead of a rolling suitcase and a backpack.

  “My flight was late. And then customs—”

  “Fine.” She held up a hand, shimmery with the sort of nail art Trevor’s sisters weren’t allowed to have. “You can have a seat.” She motioned at a seating area with square leather and chrome chairs and a metallic-looking shag rug.

  “Wait. Is my group here yet? Stand Out?”

  “Let me check.” She glanced at a pink sheet on a clipboard. “No.” She made a shooing motion back in the direction of the waiting area.

  “Thanks.”

  The receptionist disappeared back down a hallway, teetering on shoes that put her a good six inches taller than Trevor. The building was kind of a letdown—the whole complex was a series of gigantic gray warehouses, but the inside of this one was like any other office building in America. Or Canada. He’d only been in Vancouver a couple of hours and kept forgetting he wasn’t in the States anymore.

  His bag made a loud clickety-clack sound as he dragged it across tile floor to the seating area. But the only other person there didn’t even glance up. The guy was about Trevor’s age, maybe a bit younger. His eyes were half-closed, like waiting for producers to call his name was just so boring. He had that jock sprawl, maximizing every inch of the low chair. Trevor took a seat with a good view of the guy. Indifferent eye candy was his favorite kind.

  He had this thing for straight guys, particularly jocks. Jocks were his personal kryptonite—they made his knees turn into magnets, headed straight for the floor. And the guy across from him was the deadly, heart stopping red kryptonite brand of jock. His build was perfect—not too tall, because Trevor was picky about that—but jacked like a Chevy with a lift kit. Hell, even the dude’s neck was cut. Jock’s foot moved back and forth in motion with the music pumping in his ears from pricey Beats headphones.

  Since dude’s eyes were shut, Trevor felt free to continue his inventory of hotness. Baggy shorts. T-shirt for a wrestling team. Wrestling. Trevor had to shift around on the slick leather couch before continuing his appraisal. Cheap white socks, but black shoes that probably cost more than Trevor’s bike. Rich elitist jock? Yes please.

  The outfit was notable because Trevor would have figured most guys coming to a TV studio would want to dress up a little. He had, but of course now his pressed khakis and dress shirt seemed horribly overdressed compared to jock boy and the receptionist wearing a cutoff denim skirt and a tank top that seemed to be made out of nothing more than knotted rope.

  Maybe dude wasn’t here to be on TV. Or if he was, maybe he was here for a different show than the music reality show Trevor was on. He certainly didn’t look like the boy band type. Dude looked ready for an MMA fighter type show or maybe working as a stunt double. But if he wasn’t on Trevor’s show, that meant—

  “You done checking me out or you need me to turn to the other side?” Jock’s eyes snapped open. They were a startling shade of hazel, almost amber. And at the moment, they were filled with undisguised irritation.

  Oh crap. Trevor gulped hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He dug out his phone, giving himself something to look down at. He’d been caught before and it almost never ended well. With any luck, Dawn would show up soon and he would never have to see jock boy again.

  “Oh don’t be shy.” Jock boy had a killer whisper—husky with a hint of command to it. He said it with the air of someone who knew exactly how hot he was. And now he was going to make Trevor pay for noticing.

  Trevor didn’t look up from his phone. In a different situation, he’d be more than happy to let this play out until he was on his knees in the restroom with jock boy berating him, but he’d sworn to turn over a new leaf. Plus there was always the risk that this dude wanted all the verbal abuse and none of the fun. No more gambling.

  “Yeah. That’s what I figured.” The other guy snorted.

  “Trevor! You made it!” Dawn came barreling across the lobby, red hair streaming behind her. She was flanked by two nearly-identical blond giants—one wore a blue polo shirt and khaki pants, the other a brown polo and blue pants. Both had th
e same bored smirk on their faces.

  “What are you doing with your luggage?” Dawn’s smile was replaced by a frown, like Trevor was some clueless kid making her day more difficult. “Why didn’t you give it to the receptionist? They’re sending all of the contestants’ stuff over to the house while we tape the intro segments.”

  “Here. I’ll take it.” Blonde giant number one grabbed Trevor’s bags, tossing them like they were a set of hand weights.

  “Jalen!” Dawn stepped around Trevor to hug jock boy, who stood up to greet her. “It’s about time. I was starting to freak!”

  Just his luck. Dawn hung on Jalen-the-jock like they were old friends, tugging his headphones down to his neck and rubbing his closely cropped black hair. Oh geez. Jalen looked a bit young to be Dawn’s boy toy—she had to be in her late twenties. But no matter what Jalen was to Dawn, he was now a giant pain in the neck to Trevor. A sick feeling gathered in Trevor’s gut and his hands tightened.

  “Did you meet Jalen already, Trevor?” she asked.

  “No,” Trevor said carefully.

  “We’re acquainted,” Jalen drawled at the same time.

  “Um. Okay. So this is Carter. And over there is Carson.”

  Twins. They had to be twins right? Trevor was already in too much shit for gaping and didn’t want to stare hard enough to figure it out.

  “So, are we ready to become The Next Boy Band?” Carter spoke like some dude on an infomercial, each word carefully articulated for maximum impact. “I am so ready to win this thing.”

  The riot in Trevor’s stomach grew worse. Win? With Jalen-the-jock? As in Trevor was now in the same group as jock boy? And the blonde giants? For the next six weeks?

  “Yeah. Let’s do this.” Carson came back over. Like Carter, he had a macho, commanding voice, probably a baritone when he sang. Heck. Trevor really didn’t want to be the only tenor on a team of One Direction wannabes.

  “Okay, Stand Out, let’s go film your intro.” Dawn motioned for them to follow her down the hall.

  Oh hell. He was really going to be on camera, in a boy band, right freaking now.

  About the Author

  Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bedcovers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open—no flashlights required! When she’s not adding to her keeper shelf, she’s a multipublished Pacific Northwest romance writer. Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two toddlers.

  Annabeth can be found online at annabethalbert.com,

  @annabethalbert on Twitter, and Facebook.com/annabethalbert.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2015 by Annabeth Albert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Lyrical and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: August 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3390-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-391-4 ISBN-10: 1-60183-391-1