Mixed Up Love

  Mixed Up Love

  Natasha Madison

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Books By Natasha Madison

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 Natasha Madison. E-Book and Print Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons or living or dead, events or locals are entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ Use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Alyssa Garcia Uplifting Designs

  Editing done by Jenny Sims Editing4Indies

  Proofing Julie Deaton by Deaton Author Services https://www.facebook.com/jdproofs/

  To my Madison Maniacs, my secret place, thank you for being on this journey with me!

  Chapter One

  Hunter

  Beep, beep. The car alerts me that I just locked the doors as I climb up the five stairs to our office, WatchOver Me Security. For almost six years now, Anthony and I have been business partners, but instead of renting office space, we decided it would be better to have our own house.

  Entering the code on the lock, I open the door, noting the heat in the air. We have turned this three-bedroom house into our own office that fits our needs. Anthony and I each have our own office, and the third bedroom is shared with our crew—Dominic, Brian, and Dante.

  Walking in, I’m not surprised to see Rachel, our office manager, already here. Rachel has been here from the beginning with Anthony and me. Besides being the receptionist, she is the planner and also the best tech person I’ve ever met, which means I can’t fire her.

  “Morning,” she says. Her shoulder-length blond hair curled to perfection, her black rimmed glasses hiding her crystal blue eyes, she’s standing there in a tight black pencil skirt that hits just past the knees and a white button-down silk shirt tucked in. Although we don’t have a uniform, we usually wear black and white. Her pink stilettos give the only pop of color on her outfit. “I just put the coffeepot on,” she tells me, walking toward the door, heading to the basement.

  The basement is really her domain or, as she calls it, her playground. Little computer screens fill all four walls, displaying every single traffic camera we have access to—not that the city knows. Another reason I can’t fire her.

  I walk to my office and dump my keys and wallet, then shrug my suit jacket off and roll up my sleeves. Grabbing a water bottle, I head down to the basement. The lights are on, and Rachel sits in the middle of the room with her earpiece in. Her desk is U-shaped with four computer screens sitting on it. “Anthony is on his way,” she tells me as she types away. You can never sneak up on her. I’m convinced she has this whole place wired and booby-trapped. “All assignments are accounted for.” She looks up. “I need your expense report, or I may have to shoot your accountant if she calls me one more time.” She smiles, and I’m not so sure she’s joking.

  “Hey,” Anthony says, walking into the room. His huge six-foot-five frame is enough to scare anyone; that and he wears his black hair in a Mohawk of sorts. He, too, is wearing black pants and a white button-down shirt. “I brought some doughnuts,” he says, grabbing a chair and sitting on one side of the desk. “I think I’m dehydrated,” he says, finishing a bottle of water in a matter of seconds.

  Anthony and I go way, way back—to Navy training. Of course, back then, he was a six-foot-five, one-hundred-and-fifty-pound body in a little boy. It’s crazy what deployment can do for you. He hit the weights hard, and his frame filled out dramatically. We did two tours together, but after seeing so much death and escaping it many times, we knew we were done. Luckily, we got the best recommendation from our drill sergeant, and we were thrown into government detailing. Slowly but surely, we started building clientele. One politician visiting for the weekend turned into his friend giving us a call, which led to some of Hollywood’s biggest names. WatchOver Me was born, and we haven’t looked back once.

  “You are probably dehydrated because you were up all night spilling your bodily fluid elsewhere,” Rachel says, looking up with a smirk as Anthony glares at her.

  “Are you keeping track of me?” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Do you have a tracker on my phone?” He now sits up and grabs his phone.

  Rachel breathes out while Anthony types on his phone. “Your Fitbit is synced on my computer. You really need to slow down on round three and four.” She taps her finger on her desk.

  “Privacy.” Anthony points at her. “Confidential.”

  Rachel doesn’t answer. She just rolls her eyes. “One of these days, your dick is going to fall off.” He gasps in fear when she says that, cupping himself. “And Tinder is going to crash!”

  He slaps his hand down on the table. “Don’t you fuck with my Tinder app again.”

  “Again?” I ask, grabbing my own chair and sitting down. “Should I even ask?”

  “No!” Anthony yells, looking at her.

  “What? She was cute,” Rachel counters.

  “She was a fucking dude.” He raises his voice and then looks at me. “We didn’t do anything.”

  “That isn’t what her,” she says, shaking her head, “sorry, his messages said the next day.”

  “I’m changing all my passwords.” He grabs his doughnut and takes a bite while Rachel laughs.

  “Is this where the party is at?” Dominic asks when he walks in. He’s the oldest of the bunch in his late thirties. Dominic has been with us for a little over three years. We needed extra men when the Secret Service contacted us about the president staying down here for a week. He stands six-foot-six and is lean, so lean his body fat is probably zero. His black hair is buzzed on the sides and longer on top, but he styles it to the side.

  “Who bought the doughnuts?” Brian asks right behind him, walking to an empty chair. Brian is smaller than the three of us; he and Dante both stand at six-foot-two.

  “Why are you dressed like you’re going to the beach?” Anthony asks Brian.

  “Because I am going to the fucking beach,” he says, glaring at Rachel from the side. “Fucking Kardashian is going to Turks and—”

  “Not Kardashian,” Rachel says, “Jenner.”

  “Does it matter?” he says, and I look at his outfit. He’s wearing beige khakis with a white short-sleeved polo.

  “Well, at least you won’t need sunscreen,” Dominic says. When we all look at him in question, he replies, “He’s Asian.”

  “And?” Rachel says, looking up from her keyboard.

  “Well, they don’t sunburn. Have you ever seen an Asian man with a sunburn?”

  “No,” Brian says, “because we wear fucking sunscreen.” He shakes his head. “Dumbass.”

  “Where is Dante?” I ask, looking at my watch. It’s almost nine, when every
one is supposed to be in for the Friday morning meetings.

  “He just pulled up,” Rachel says, flicking one of the screens to the front door where we watch Dante’s six-foot-two frame ducking a bit when he walks in the door. His black hair perfectly coiffed and cut short on the sides and long on the top. His green eyes covered by his aviator sunglasses. He doesn’t bother going any farther into the house and comes right down the steps.

  “Right on time,” he says, smiling and showing off his perfect teeth. He’s our pretty boy as we call him.

  “You’re ten seconds late,” Rachel says, eyeing him and looking at the screen.

  “I stepped into the door at eight fifty-nine and forty-seven seconds,” he says, and I watch Rachel.

  “I beg to differ,” she says. “I can pull up photo evidence, if you’d like.”

  “Okay, you two,” I say, “let’s get on with the show.” I pick up the pile of yellow folders. “Looks like we have the quietest weekend ever. Or next couple of weekends, for that matter.”

  “Except for me,” Brian says, glaring, and everyone else is laughing.

  “We have three state senators coming next week to play a round of golf.” I look at them. “Anthony, Dante, and I will cover that.”

  “Brian, you have another celebrity coming to town,” I say, and he groans. “It’s a guy. He’s coming here for a three-day vacation. Chances are he won’t need you, but you’re on call just in case.”

  “Dante, you are in the office next week,” I tell him, and he just nods his head. “Next month is huge. We have the biggest music festival coming to town.” This time, everyone groans.

  “Great, twenty-one-year-olds vomiting everywhere,” Dante says. “So glamourous.”

  “Remember when that girl threw up on your new Gucci shoes?” Anthony laughs, pointing at Dante. “I thought you were going to cry.” We all laugh as he gives us the finger.

  “I had those shoes for three days,” he says. “Three.”

  “Well, next time, go with Adidas or Nike,” Rachel says, shrugging her shoulder.

  “Okay, I think that is all. I want everyone to study the golf course, just in case we need to swap in. Also, I want to go over the layout of the music festival,” I tell them. “Let’s reconvene in two hours,” I say, looking at the time. “Rachel, you can get lunch in since it will most likely be an all-afternoon thing.”

  She nods her head. “I’m ordering from Marcos, so everyone get their order to me, or I will order what I think you should eat.” The boys waste no time grabbing their phones and texting her their order. The last time she did that, she ordered us all quinoa and kale salad with figs. It was so horrible. I had twigs in my teeth.

  I walk up the stairs to my office in one of the bedrooms. It’s a plain office with a desk, chair, and a loveseat. Pictures are hanging around the room of some of our clients, thanks to Rachel. I sit down and start studying the lay of the land for the meeting in two hours. I make some notes and draw out some exit routes.

  By the time we get back downstairs, we have everything set up. I grab a copy to look over tonight, saying goodbye to everyone, then walk back upstairs. Going to my desk, I slap the files on it.

  “Hunter, your mother is on line one.” I hear Rachel say from the phone speaker. I’m about to tell her to take a message when she adds, “I told her you were out of town.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her, opening my emails.

  “Don’t thank me,” she starts. “I expect my Starbucks on Monday.” I don’t bother answering because I know she’s already disconnected.

  Opening the file again, I’m about to start making another plan of action when I hear a knock on my door.

  “I need to ask you for a favor.” I look up from my computer at Anthony.

  He stands there, leaning against the doorjamb. With his arms folded over his chest, the material of his shirt looks like it’s about to split open. He spends a ridiculous amount of time in the gym.

  “I just did you a favor last week when that country singer came to town unexpectedly to surprise her boyfriend, and we had to smuggle her in a box,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair.

  “That wasn’t really for me,” he says, thinking of a certain celebrity who was in town. “She’s back in the dating game, and the paps followed her here.” He smiles. “She just wanted to hang with her guy. Putting her in that crate was genius. No one even picked up on that one.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve done some pretty crazy things in my life, but putting the country’s golden girl in a crate had to be one of them.”

  “Good times.” He smiles, making me roll my eyes. It was not what I considered a good time.

  “Now what do you need?” I ask him, crossing my own arms over my chest.

  “I need you to pretend you’re me,” he says, looking at me, and I glare at him. Forget the fact he’s two inches taller than I am, and where he is hulk, I’m lean. My hair is blond, cut short on the sides, longer on the top, and my eyes are gray instead of brown.

  “How in the hell are we going to pass that off?” I ask him, confused. “Clearly, we are like day and night. Me being the day part.”

  “I have a blind date tonight, and well, I also have a real date tonight.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I groan internally.

  “Who would fix you up on a blind date?” I ask, laughing. “You have commitment issues.”

  Now, it’s Anthony who glares at me. “I don’t have commitment issues. I just like Tinder more than I like a relationship right now.” He holds up his hands. “I can’t be tied down.”

  “You know you can get carpal tunnel from swiping right and left.” I smirk at him as he just glares.

  “I will have you know that the girl I’m going on a date tonight with is someone who I met through Tinder, yesterday,” he tells me all proud, “which means two dates, two different days, same girl. If that doesn’t scream I can change, I don’t know what will.”

  “Oh, wow,” I say, throwing up my hands in the air. “Back-to-back dates.” I shake my head. “Why don’t you just go out with this blind date, and then go out on the next one?”

  “Can’t do it,” he says, shaking his head. “We have an appointment at five.”

  “It’s four,” I tell him, looking at the time in the corner of the computer screen. “And what date has an appointment time?”

  “Well,” he says, pushing himself off the door, “I booked us the suite at the Ritz.”

  “Oh my god,” I say, slapping my hands on top of the desk while laughing. “She’s a hooker? Do you pay her at the end?”

  “She isn’t a hooker. She just lives with a roommate, and well, I don’t know her well enough to have her come to my place,” he says, coming into my office now. “Will you take my place?”

  “What if she saw a picture of you from the person who set you guys up?” I counter.

  “No. I already asked my mother, and she said that all she told her mother was that I was single and had a steady job,” he says. “Besides, just say I cut my hair.”

  “Your mother set you up on a blind date?” I chuckle. “Why would she do that?” I ask him. “This is ridiculous. Just call and cancel.”

  “I can’t. I promised my mother she could set me up once a year, and this is the day,” he says. “Can you please, please just do this for me?”

  “Why don’t I just go and say you had an emergency?” I counter. “I can tell her that you were called away on a top-secret mission and will call her when you get back.”

  He shakes his head. “No because then my mother will set it up again. Please, Hunter, just do this one thing for me.”

  I lean forward on my elbows. “I hate liars and lying. You know this, right?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  “Stop being so fucking noble and just go on the date. Besides, when was the last time you actually dated a woman?” he asks me.

  “I think …” I stop talking, trying to think back. Jesus, when was the last time I had a date? I point at him. “What
if she falls for my charm and wants another date?”

  His head tips back, and he roars out with laughter. “You? Last week, the girl at Starbucks gave you your coffee with her number on it, and you threw it out without taking a sip.” He shakes his head while he continues to laugh. “You didn’t even walk out and do it in secret. You did it right in front of her.”

  “I was letting her know I wasn’t interested in her,” I tell him. “I didn’t see the need to beat around the bush.”

  “Oh, she got the memo all right.” He shakes his head. “No beating around the bush with you.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” I tell him, getting up and going to look out the window.

  “You have a bad feeling about everything,” Anthony says, going to the door, then turning back to look at me. “I’ll forward you the address to meet her.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say under my breath.

  “Oh, and try to be a human.” He laughs. “Don’t just grunt. Use your words.”

  “I have two words for you right now,” I tell him as he walks down the hall to his own office. “It’s one meal. How bad could it be?” I say to myself when I look down and see where I have to meet this woman after my phone beeps with Anthony’s text.

  Ivy Garden

  6:00 p.m. reservations are under Anthony.

  Her name is Laney, and she has long blondish hair.

  I owe you one.

  I close my eyes and count to ten, and then continue my work till it’s time to go.

  Chapter Two

  Laney

  “Mom, you have to stop doing this,” I tell my mother over the phone while I scroll through my patient list for Monday. To say I was looking forward to Saturday is an understatement. I turned off my alarm this morning, and it was nice to know I didn’t have to be anywhere tomorrow. I sit back in my office chair and look around. My diplomas are hanging on the wall right on top of the little couch that I bought so I could put my feet up when I have a few minutes. It’s been three years, and the only time I’ve sat in it has been to change my shoes.