The Boyfriend Makeover (The Boyfriend Chronicles Book 3), page 1
The Boyfriend Makeover
River Jaymes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright © 2016 River Jaymes
Cover art by the Killion Group
This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9912807-4-2
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
About the Author
The Boyfriend Makeover
River Jaymes
Chapter One
Noah knew he was in trouble the moment his reason for attending tonight’s fundraiser, namely one Walter McKinney, smiled. Yes, smiled.
Unfortunately, his expression matched the cold, vacant-eyed vibe of the sand shark lazily swimming past in the aquarium behind the portable yet fully stocked bar.
“I don’t know if I can swing a donation this year, Noah.” The sixty-three-year-old CEO of McKinney Industries leaned against the counter. White LED lights lit the inside of the ultra-modern, large acrylic-block furniture arranged to form the bar, the otherworldly glow reflecting off the blue waters of the massive shark exhibit beyond. “I’d love to, but…”
“But?”
“Times are tough.”
The twenty-thousand-dollar Kiton tuxedo the man wore suggested otherwise.
“Walter,” Noah said, forcing a smile as he carefully waded through their subtext-fueled conversation, “I know your girlfriend has a special place in her heart for the Front Street Clinic.”
Translation: Her cousin is gay and everyone knows you treat him like shit. Your annual contribution is one of the reasons she keeps letting you back in her pants.
“Glenda once told me,” Noah went on, “that her dream was to ensure every homeless person in San Francisco had access to proper medical care.”
“My girlfriend is a bleeding heart for vagrants.”
“Including those who have HIV.”
“Which wouldn’t be a problem if you people kept it in your pants.”
You people.
Noah bit his lip against a sharp retort, ignoring the insult. “Your donation will help Glenda’s dream come true.”
Walter’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows of monstrous proportions rose a fraction of an inch. Noah checked the urge to whip out a pair of tweezers and divide the unibrow in two.
“Glenda also dreams of a day when every stray dog has an owner who treats their pet as well as she treats Coco.” As Walter spoke the pampered Pomeranian’s name, his lips twisted in distaste. “The reality is, that will never happen,” he said with a look that spoke volumes.
In other words: Nice try, but no hand-rolled Cuban cigar, Noah Tanner.
“Coco is lovely,” Noah lied.
“Coco is a menace.”
“She’s known for being very…affectionate.”
“She’s known for humping every leg within a twenty-mile radius.”
“And you are known for your generosity,” Noah returned smoothly. He ignored the murmur of conversations around him as he went on. “Case in point…” He gestured at the Bay Aquarium—the venue of choice for this year’s Humane Society Pawpawpalooza—and the designer-clad guests milling about. “As usual, you’ve outdone yourself putting on the gala.”
He employed a dramatic pause, hoping to bring home a win. Because, holy deity on a stick, the clinic needed him to close this deal.
As he held his breath, Noah focused on the dimly lit, beautifully decorated cavernous room in an attempt to appear adequately impressed. The garlicky scent of sizzling shrimp scampi filled the air.
After a non-response from Walter, Noah tried again. “And we both know the Front Street Clinic offers vital services—”
“Vital?”
“Vital,” he replied, “just like the Humane Society.”
Because homeless people deserved to be treated as humanely as, Lord, please, maybe even a little better than, homeless animals.
“Maybe.” Walter’s smile grew wider, an act that somehow managed to increase the creepy vibe. “I heard you and your little band of queer doctor friends didn’t qualify for the People First grant this year.”
Translation: Admit it, you asshole, you’re desperate. Now lick my shoes and repent of your fagotty ways.
“Is that true?” Walter went on.
“That’s true,” he murmured.
“Too bad.” His expression suggested otherwise. The older man’s smile seemed almost gleeful now. “Losing those funds must have been a low…blow.”
Noah resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Seriously, the abuse of clichés he put up with in the name of his favorite charity. Thing was, for the most part, he loved his not-job. He loved attending upscale events where the beautiful people socialized and the alcohol flowed freely. He lived for the challenge of smooth-talking the rich and powerful into giving for the greater good.
But people like Walter?
Noah sighed and watched the sand shark swim past again.
Maybe he should get an actual paid position instead of donating all his time schmoozing the wealthy in order to keep the clinic’s doors open. If he had to put up with the occasional homo-slanderous comments, condescension, and passive-aggressive bullshit, he should at least be putting his degree to work and getting benefits in return. Benefits like better health insurance, a fat 401(k), and disability.
If he could write off the occasional bar tab as a business expense, all the better.
But…he couldn’t.
“We’ll manage,” Noah finally said. “We always do.” He wouldn’t rest until he’d succeeded. “Especially with the help of our benevolent regular sponsors.” He sent the man a winning smile. “Benevolent sponsors like McKinney Industries.”
The sound that escaped Walter’s lips could only be described as a you’ll have to try harder harrumph.
The bartender handed Noah his drink and turned to take Mr. McKinney’s order. Noah considered his next move as he eyed the crowd in suits and dresses critically and took a sip from his glass. The sea breeze contained too much cranberry and grapefruit juice in relation to the vodka, especially in light of the asshole-y nature of his current company.
“As I said,” McKinney continued as the bartender handed him his whiskey sour and moved on, “times are tough.”
“Even tougher for those living on the streets.”
“The Lord helps those who help themselves.”
Ohmygod, really? Well, he could quote ancient texts of debatable authorship, too.
“He who gives to the poor will never want,” Noah recited. “But he who shuts his eyes will have many curses.”
And Noah Tanner, badass, queenly son of a not-bitch was known for his creative cursing.
Walter frowned, clearly expecting Noah to burst into flames for daring to quote the verse. But Noah already knew what hell was like, and this?
This didn’t even come close.
“Are you sure you’re properly armed for a theological debate?” Walter asked.
“That’s not the debate I came to have.”
“Yes, your little clinic,” he said, an empty smile on his face. “It would be a shame if you had to shut it down.”
A cold sweat broke out along Noah’s back. The clinic closing wouldn’t be a shame, it would be a horrendous tragedy. An epic tragedy, just like Rick’s death.
Rick.
Noah’s stomach lurched, and the surge of grief threatened to make him hurl. Noah’s definition of hell? Going to bed every night knowing that treatment had been available but not accessible to a down-on-his-luck, HIV-positive young adult.
Close, yet so far away.
Just like the McKinney donation.
With renewed determination, Noah turned to his opponent. “Mr. McKinney—”
“Yes, Mr. Tanner?” he said drolly.
Noah cranked up the wattage of his smile, only to be interrupted by a female voice calling from a good distance behind.
“Noah!”
Swiveling on his barstool, he spied the couple threading their way through the crowd.
Well…damn.
When Noah had given his event coordinator two tickets to tonight’s gala, he hadn’t counted on Savannah bringing her brother—half brother, to be specific. Her tall, dark, and unfairly-blessed-by-the-gods brother.
A man who made Noah want to thank deities he didn’t believe in.
Ky’s dark brown hair reached his collar and managed to look adorably rugged and damn sexy at the same time. He’d defied the crowd’s designer preferences
Not quite an epic tragedy, but a fashion tragedy nonetheless.
The man’s expression, however, left no doubt. He wasn’t clueless as much as he just didn’t care.
“Savannah”—as the petite blonde drew closer, Noah adopted his first real smile of the night—“you look lovely, as usual.”
He shifted his gaze to her brother, hoping to muster a suitable greeting beyond an embarrassing dribble of drool. He settled on a cautious nod.
“I’ve been looking all over for you.” She came to a stop in front of him. “Do you have a minute?”
“Uhm.” How was Noah supposed to work his magic on Walter with Kyland Davis standing around with a guarded expression, looking so…so…unhappy to be here and in need of a makeover and a blow job? Not necessarily in that order. Noah wasn’t picky.
Except for when he was.
“I need to discuss something with you.” Her earnest green eyes settled on Noah. “It’s really important.”
He mentally sighed. Saying no to her sweet face was impossible.
Noah turned back to the man to his left. “Do you mind, Walter?”
“Not at all.”
“I’d like to continue our little chat later.” Because he had every intention of getting into the man’s wallet, in the name of justice and health care for all.
Rick’s memory deserved nothing less than his best efforts.
The shark grin returned. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I bet you are.
“Me, too.” Noah faked a pleasant expression.
He watched the head of the McKinney family fortunes saunter off before facing the brother-and-sister team again.
“Thanks again for the tickets to the gala.” Savannah’s pixie cut framed her delicate face. Her cocktail dress had zero cleavage and showed less leg on her youthful frame than the one covering the seventy-year-old treasurer of the local Humane Society. “And you were right, as always.” She slid onto the barstool next to him. “Seeing the aquarium all decked out is giving me lots of ideas for this year’s Bachelor Bid.”
“You and your sister did a fabulous job on last year’s.”
“But Sierra couldn’t come out from Texas to help me this time.” Worry flickered through her green eyes. “So this is the first one I’m doing alone.”
“Savannah”—Noah briefly touched her arm in reassurance—“this is the third event we’ve worked on together. I trust you.”
The bartender appeared, and Noah waited while the siblings decided on their order.
He hadn’t been lying about trusting her. Hiring the fresh-faced recent college grad to help plan the upcoming Bachelor Bid—the annual fundraiser for the Front Street Clinic’s housing fund—had been a given. Last year’s failure to raise enough money during the event hadn’t been due to her considerable efforts. And this year, Noah planned to fix the failure.
Well, just as soon as his libido recovered from the presence of Savannah’s brother. The bartender handed the man a mug of beer.
“Dr. Davis,” Noah said to the surgeon hovering just beyond his sister’s shoulder. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Did the man’s mouth just twitch? And if so, was that supposed to be a greeting?
Either way, Savannah didn’t give him time to respond. “I had to drag Ky along tonight.”
“Really?” Noah said, faking surprise.
She slanted a look at her brother. “He doesn’t like getting dressed up.”
Against his will, Noah’s gaze dropped to Ky’s cowboy boots, the tips peeking from beneath the hem of his jeans. Noah had only been around the surgeon twice before, but both times he’d worn the scuffed leather as though carrying a piece of Texas along for the ride. And, seriously, the indecent things the footwear brought to Noah’s mind…
How had he reached thirty years of age without realizing he had a secret cowboy fixation?
“In the interest of full disclosure,” Noah said to the surgeon, “I have to tell you that I’m forming an illicit attachment to your boots.”
As predicted, a look of disapproval appeared on Ky’s face, and his sister’s lips quirked in amusement.
“Sounds like a personal problem,” Ky murmured.
Noah laughed. “I have plenty of personal problems,” he said, stupidly thrilled the surgeon had finally joined the conversation. “My obsession with footwear, however, doesn’t rank high on the list.”
“You have a list?” he asked.
“Doesn’t everybody?”
Ky’s answer came in the form of an unimpressed stare—what color were his eyes, anyway? Brown? Hazel?—that lasted two beats.
Although their interactions had been very limited, Noah liked to think they’d established a working relationship. A relatively simple working relationship where Noah continued to toss his admittedly ridiculous comments in the man’s direction and Ky continued to pretend he didn’t find his outrageous ways amusing.
Either that or the surgeon wasn’t pretending. Noah wasn’t sure.
“Hard to believe, I know,” Savannah said. “But those Stetson boots aren’t the only shoes he owns. They’re the only shoes he wears. Outside the OR, of course. I’m lucky I convinced him to put on the jacket.”
“Nice choice,” Noah said. The black leather coat was simple yet ultra-sleek—not a word he’d normally apply to the surgeon.
“Doesn’t it look good on him?” she said.
Noah bit back an inappropriate reply of an overtly sexual nature. In the presence of a jawline crafted by the gods and covered with attractive scruff, he should be commended for his restraint.
“I suspect everything looks good on him.” Noah smiled at the deliberately blank look on Ky’s face before turning to Savannah. “Was the jacket a gift from you?”
“Me and Sierra.”
“Ah, Sierra,” Noah said with a smile. “Your delightfully evil twin.”
Savannah was sweet and earnest. Sierra, on the other hand, was sharp-tongued, opinionated, and endearingly devious. If Noah had been straight and into monogamy, he would have married her instantly.
“My sister is definitely…” Savannah gave a magnanimous shrug.
“Intriguing?” Noah suggested. “My sister from another mother?”
Ky’s lips twitched—in amusement, perhaps? “A handful,” he said above the rim of his mug.
“A delightful handful,” Noah added.
A soft huff from the surgeon managed to convey disagreement, resignation, and a hefty dose of affection, all at the same time. He clearly had the maximum expression with the minimum of effort down pat.
“Delightful on a good day, with a penchant for trouble on the rest.” Ky propped his foot on the bottom rung of Savannah’s barstool.
Noah was inconveniently hit with the urge to dress him up like a mannequin in a window. Against his will, his gaze returned to the leather toes of the cowboy boots. Perhaps the window of Abercrombie and Fitch—
Ky leaned an elbow against the bar and his jacket shifted, revealing a truly awful belt buckle worthy of any rodeo star.
Noah suppressed a grimace. Maybe Tex’s Farm and Feed store window would be more appropriate.
“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Savannah said. “Essentially, this.” She waved her hand along the length of her brother’s frame, the vision sending a frisson of excitement up Noah’s spine. “We need your help.”
Ky shot his sister a warning look. “Savannah—”
“Please,” she went on, ignoring her brother.
Noah’s eyes got caught on shoulders so broad a man could get lost licking his way from one side to the other.
“My help,” Noah repeated dumbly.
The help he wanted to provide would entail tongue. Lots and lots of tongue. On various and sundry naked body parts. Although that probably wasn’t what Savannah had in mind for her brother.
“After blackmailing him into participating in the Bachelor Bid, now I have to convince him to get ready,” she said.
“I am ready,” her brother grunted out.
Noah couldn’t get past the sexy speed bump created by the first part of Savannah’s statement. “Blackmail?”
A wary look crossed Ky’s face.
Savannah’s eyes lit up with humor. “Yes.”
Before he could stop the words, Noah leaned forward and stage whispered, “Did the blackmail involve pictures?”
