The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge: A Harvest Valley Romance (Harvest Valley Romance Book 3) Read online

  But this time, Connor had finally caved, because Trevor’s latest contest idea involved raising money for charity. The winner picked a charity that the loser had to donate five thousand dollars to. Connor had no idea what charity Trevor had in mind — if the guy had thought that far ahead, which he doubted. Connor had already picked the charity for Trevor to donate to: the local women’s shelter. The guy spent so much time objectifying women that the least Connor could do was make him help women like his mother — strong women who needed help fleeing abuse.

  Trevor would be posting the first task of the challenge shortly before midnight. Wanting to watch the video alone, Connor stepped onto the porch of the old house he’d rented with some roommates near campus. The glow of the porchlight spilled golden onto unblemished snow.

  He checked his phone. Sure enough, he’d been tagged in a new post. For what had to be the hundredth time that day, Connor considered pulling out of the contest. It hadn’t started yet. Any hubbub over his canceling would settle down soon enough. His audience wasn’t the one clamoring for the competition. He’d happily give five grand to Trevor’s charity of choice. He only hoped it wouldn’t be something like a foundation that bought costumes for needy role-playing gamers or something equally pointless.

  His thumb hovered over the icon. In his gut, he knew he’d go through with the challenge. He’d made a commitment, and he didn’t renege on a promise. Plus, he really did want to raise money for the local battered women’s shelter. He planned to match Trevor’s donation, making it ten thousand total. And Connor could encourage his audience to donate as well.

  He remembered all too well living in a shelter as a kid, after his mother had taken him and his brother and fled from his dad with little more than the clothes on their backs. She’d passed away three years ago from breast cancer. That was another charity he’d considered. In the end, though, he knew that he literally owed his life to that shelter and to the volunteers who’d helped his mother stand on her own two feet again after she’d taken him and his little brother there. A few years later, his father was convicted of killing a girlfriend and would spend the rest of his life in prison. Connor had no doubt that if his mother hadn’t acted, she would have been the woman he killed, and Connor and his brother would have been split up in foster care — if not dead.

  You’re stalling, he thought. He pulled his focus to his phone. He needed to watch the video introducing the contest, which Trevor had dubbed, “The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge,” because supposedly it would prove which of them was the “real” man.

  But before Connor could tap the icon, he heard the sound of spinning car wheels, followed by a door slamming and a voice saying, “Crap. Crap, crap, crap!”

  Wondering if someone needed help, he stepped off the porch and walked toward the street. Two houses down, an old sedan had run into a bank of snow left by a snowplow. He knew from experience that the snow was likely several feet thick and about as hard as concrete. That car was definitely stuck. The car beeped and flashed its lights as it was locked. Soon after, the figure of a young woman appeared, lugging a laundry bag over one shoulder. She slowly picked her way along the icy road. He glanced to his left, toward the laundromat down the hill. That’s where she had to be headed. But at midnight? In the winter? Alone?

  “Hey, you okay?” Connor called, hoping to help.

  She let out a high-pitched yelp, clearly startled by his presence. She slipped, dropping the bag and catching her balance on a mailbox. Her boots went in opposite directions as she held on and regained her footing. She didn’t respond to him except for glancing his way with wide, worried eyes.

  Crap, he thought, echoing her own exclamation. He hadn’t meant to scare her. Mom taught you better than that.

  He retreated slowly and headed for the house so she’d know he wasn’t some creep who followed random women in the middle of the night. Once inside, he closed the door, turned out the living room lights, and stood at the edge of the living room window so he could make sure she was okay. The woman — a university student, he guessed, based on her age and the direction she’d come from — picked up the bag, still holding onto the mailbox, then carefully let go and walked, one tiny, quick step at a time, as if trying to hurry but knowing that bigger steps would mean another fall.

  Before she disappeared down the slope of the hill, she paused and looked over her shoulder at the house. Connor moved into the shadows of the living room, hoping she hadn’t seen him, or she might be spooked after all.

  Good guys, he remembered his mother telling him and his brother, Jacob, could help ease women’s fears by consciously not appearing threatening. She’d given examples like walking on the other side of the street so a woman didn’t need to worry whether a man was following her.

  Mom would smack me on the forehead if she could see me now.

  The young woman passed beneath a street lamp. Her hair seemed to glow from a streetlamp breaking through her hair, lighting it into a deep copper flame. He’d always been partial to redheads. He smiled at that, wishing they could have met under other circumstances. He couldn’t exactly chase her down now and ask her out. She’d probably call 911 or pull a can of pepper spray. But as the darkness enveloped her, he noticed something bright blue in the snow. Something had fallen out of her laundry bag.

  He slipped out the door and hurried over to the blob in the road — a blue HVU sweatshirt. He picked it up and shook off the powdery snow, rescuing it from getting soaked. The edge of the collar was worn in spots, as were the cuffs of the sleeves. The white logo had faded somewhat. The shirt had obviously been worn and well-loved. She’d miss it.

  He turned in the direction she’d walked. I could catch her and return it.

  To his credit, he restrained the instinct to yell to her. She’d likely slip and fall again, maybe hurting herself — and then she’d call the cops on him. Maybe he could leave it on the hood of her car. No. It’d end up sopping wet, and maybe stolen.

  Slinging the sweatshirt over one shoulder, he headed for the house. He’d figure out what to do with it later. First, though, he needed to bite the bullet by finding out the first task of The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge. Whatever it was, he had to beat Trevor. As soon as Connor got inside and clicked the door shut behind him, his phone squawked with the barnyard noises he’d assigned to Trevor’s number. Connor reluctantly checked the text.

  Challenge #1 is live. May the best man win.

  Connor wished he’d insisted on more ground rules, including having an impartial third party select the challenges. But Trevor had insisted publicly that his assistant, Johnny, would create the challenges in secret, and that Trevor wouldn’t know them until each one was announced live. Tired of arguing with Trevor, and glad he’d agreed to the charity donation aspect, so Connor had relented.

  On the up side, the challenges would significantly increase Connor’s audience, which, he hoped, might turn into increased donations for the shelter. Yet he dreaded the possibility of the tasks reflecting Trevor’s personality, like taking selfies kissing strange women. Rather, chicks or babes.

  To keep my integrity, I’ll have to be creative, he thought.

  His phone mooed, clucked, and baa-ed again with a second text from Trevor.

  Chicken? A fitting text, considering the barnyard noises that accompanied it. Another text followed.

  You backing out?

  Connor quickly typed a reply before Trevor could turn his taunting to social media. Game on. Prepare to lose.

  He sent the text and then panicked — what if the first task was something horrible that he couldn’t bear to do?

  Here goes nothing. Connor played the video.

  Trevor wore his trademark fedora. “Hey, there! It’s Trevor Knowles from The Trevor Dudes. Right now it’s just past midnight, so it’s officially Valentine’s Day. And you know what that means...” He let an air horn rip in one hand and threw confetti with the other. “It’s time for The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge! That’s right, Fello
w Trevor Dudes! For the next twenty-four hours, I’ll be facing off virtually with Connor Wynn, the guy you might know as the host of Wynn Rocks. The two of us will be posting updates right here on Instagram and on YouTube. Be sure to follow the official Ultimate Bachelor hashtag so you don’t miss a thing!”

  He made a hashtag symbol with his fingers.

  “A new task will be announced every two hours, right here on my feed. So keep your eyes peeled on the even hours: the next task will go live at two o’clock, then four o’clock, and so on. Each successfully completed task earns the bachelor two hundred points. But the first bachelor to post proof of completion earns an additional hundred points. At the end, we’ll tally up likes, shares, thumbs-up, follows, and all of that, throw the numbers into a fancy algorithm, and we’ll know the winner.” He nodded and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Simple, right? My good friend Johnny here came up with the tasks. They’re known only to him. I haven’t seen any of them. Right, Johnny?”

  The camera rotated to the left, where Johnny waved and called, “That’s right. Hey, Trevor Dudes!”

  The feed panned to Trevor. “Today will be full of surprises for both me and Connor. Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers, reconsidered, added a third, and then waved his hand dismissively. “Aw, forget it. I don’t know the Boy Scout salute. Is that even what they call it? Screw it. I was never a scout.” He laughed, and Johnny joined in from off camera. “Seriously, though, let’s get down to business and announce challenge number one!” He held his right hand out, and from off-screen, Johnny handed him a white board. Trevor read the red marker, nodded approvingly, then showed the text to the camera as he read it aloud.

  “Take a selfie wearing a strange woman’s piece of clothing. The woman who owns the item must also be in the shot.”

  He gave a thumbs up. “This should be an especially interesting challenge for the middle of the night.” He leaned forward and grew more serious. “Now remember, Connor, it has to be an article of clothing from a strange woman.” With one finger, he tracked the word on the board, almost as if he were a kindergarten teacher. “That doesn’t mean some weird chick, right Johnny?”

  “Nope.” Johnny appeared in the frame. “Although finding a freaky chick like a streetwalker isn’t the point — although that would be interesting, and it would count.” He and Trevor laughed and high-fived.

  “So it just has to be something owned by a woman we don’t already know?” Trevor clarified.

  “Right,” Johnny said, nodding at the camera and then leaving the frame again.

  Trevor turned to the camera, and when he spoke, Connor felt as if his nemesis were speaking to him right there in the living room. “Someone we don’t know. No borrowing your mom’s high heels or your sister’s maternity dress. And no putting on something for sale at a store like at a Walmart because it’s open late. It has to a piece of clothing that belongs to a real chick you didn’t meet until tonight.” Trevor lowered the white board and grinned mischievously. “Let’s see what Team Trevor Dudes and Team Wynn Rocks come up with. Ready, Connor? I am. Let The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge begin!”

  The video ended with the electric guitar riff Trevor used at the end of all his videos, along with his bright yellow logo of a fist punching forward, as if it were hitting the viewer. The guy was nothing if not lacking in class. Connor glanced at the stats. The video was only a few minutes old, but it already had more than a thousand views and almost a couple hundred comments.

  Connor let out a mouthful of air. Where was he supposed to find a woman he didn’t know, who would willingly let him put on something of hers and post a selfie of the two of them? He grabbed the sweatshirt off his shoulder, meaning to toss it onto the couch, but then the obvious solution hit him.

  He looked out the window at the spot where the woman had clung to the mailbox for dear life. What if he got a picture of himself wearing it at the laundromat before returning it to her? If he did that, he might have a shot at completing the first task before Trevor. A boost of energy went through him.

  How to approach her and ask for the picture? He could hear his mother’s voice in his ear now. You’re going to frighten the poor dear to death.

  What if he showed up to do his own laundry? A guy with a laundry basket wouldn’t look threatening. He doubted that she’d seen him, so seeing him walk into the laundromat shouldn’t scare her. He wouldn’t put the sweatshirt on until after getting her permission, of course.

  This could work.

  Plan set, he went to his room and gathered his laundry. Soon he had the basket, a bottle of detergent, and the sweatshirt all loaded into his car, and he was driving down the hill to the laundromat.

  Valentine’s Day and the stupid Ultimate Bachelor Challenge might start off on a very good note after all.

  Chapter Three

  Sam pushed her way through the laundromat door and hefted her bag on top of the nearest washer.

  No one was inside. Washers and dryers lined the perimeter, and a double-wide row ran down the middle of the room. One washer was mid-cycle, with a basket on top, filled with folded tops and cardigans — definitely a woman’s laundry. After Tara’s car took a nosedive into the snow, and having to walk the rest of the way in the dark, Sam had been on edge. Hearing some guy call out to her hadn’t exactly helped her nerves. But now, in the warmth and solitude of the laundromat, she relaxed.

  She planned to start two loads and read a novel on her phone until they were done. She’d call a taxi or Uber to her apartment. It was only five blocks, and part of her argued that paying for such a short ride would be silly. But she’d been spooked enough on the way here, and walking up the icy hill even later into the night would mess with her head even more. She’d enlist her roommates to help dig out the car, maybe during a break between movies. Hopefully the car didn’t have any damage.

  She crossed to the double row of machines and dumped her mesh bag on top then proceeded to sort her dirty clothes into two machines — whites in the left, colors in the right. One of these days, she’d separate her clothes more, into both lights and darks, whites and delicates. But not until she owned her own machine and didn’t need to be aware of exactly when her loads were done or risk having her laundry stolen. And when she didn’t have to make sure she had enough quarters.

  Just as she started the colored load, which included her beloved maxi skirt, the bells on the door rang behind her, followed by the squeak of a wet sneaker on the linoleum. Sam’s head came up, but otherwise she froze, and her fingers dug into the holes of the mesh laundry bag, though she wanted to bit her thumbnail. Who had come in at this hour? Hopefully the owner of the pink cardigan.

  Please be another woman, Sam thought as she slowly folded her bag, trying to act casual. Too bad she hadn’t thought of using the machines on the other side of island; that would’ve given her a perfect view of the door. And too bad Steve wasn’t with her right now to play the part of bodyguard. Then again, if he was in town — which he probably was — they wouldn’t be hanging out in a dingy laundry room. There was a reason she would be showering, straightening her hair, doing full makeup, and wearing her best outfit before she saw him again. She definitely wouldn’t be getting engaged wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and sporting a messy bun.

  The person walked to her right and set a laundry basket on a washer on the side wall. From the corner of her eye, Sam confirmed that it was indeed a man. From the corner of her eye, all she could use was his back, so she couldn’t tell much besides the fact that he had to be over six feet and probably in his twenties. That also described about eighty percent of men who lived in the area.

  He might be entirely harmless, but she’d still create some distance between them and discourage conversation. After all, these were Ted Bundy’s old stomping grounds, and being a friendly guy is what got all of his victims into trouble. She heard about the serial killer every time she went home; her parents worried over her and regularly reminded her to stay safe, and that even nice-loo
king guys could be dangerous. Maybe their paranoia had affected her more than she’d realized.

  Sam turned around and hopped up to sit on a washer and held her phone to her ear, pretending to be on a call. “Oh, Steve, you’re so sweet,” she said in her most maple-syrupy voice. Anyone hearing her would have to assume that she was actually talking to her boyfriend. She pretended to listen to a response, twirled a lock of hair and tossed it over one shoulder, then laughed. “I’m going to hold you to that, you know.”

  The guy, now off to her left, glanced her direction, then resumed loading a washer with jeans and t-shirts. She couldn’t avoid noticing his build. He probably played some kind of sport. But he was shorter than she’d guessed at first glimpse. He might be barely six feet, if that. He took off his coat and tossed it onto a dryer, revealing a t-shirt stretched over his torso. Was it possible to have a six pack on your back? Because every inch of the guy seemed ripped. What kind of sport created that kind of physique?

  Good thing none of her roommates had joined her. Tara would have gasped, or even said something embarrassing, like, “Ooh, I’d like him for dessert.”

  Her parents’ warnings cranked up her nerves. She was small-framed and barely five-foot-one, as her mother often reminded her. Even with a self-defense class under her belt — something her dad had insisted on — someone that ripped could pretty much do anything he wanted to her without breaking a sweat.

  He closed the washer door, and as he reached for his detergent bottle, he looked over, throwing her a hint of a smile and nod as a hello. Her nerves relaxed a bit. Except that her mother would argue that putting a girl at ease was exactly the kind of thing a creep would do. Sam shook her head and ordered herself to stop thinking like that.

  With the detergent added, he started the washer then tossed a faded sweatshirt to one side. He must have forgotten to toss it in with the rest, though it probably belonged to his girlfriend; it was much too small for him.