The Alpha For Her

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Blurb:

An alpha male, billionaire, BWWM romance book. Makeup and fashion blogger Jennifer James couldn’t be happier living in rural Connecticut. But she can’t shake off the feeling that something—or someone—is missing from her picture-perfect setup. Years of high school heartbreaks have led her to swear off romance for good.

However, a twist of fate might be on the horizon. Jennifer’s life is thrown into a whirlwind when she’s invited to a start-up conference hosted by billionaire Flint Dryzek. It soon becomes clear to Jennifer that Flint is orchestrating a series of bizarre competitions for his own amusement. However, an invitation from Flint reveals a side to him she hadn’t seen before.

Despite his intensity, there’s a genuine kindness and a warm heart—not to mention, he’s incredibly good-looking. Caught under Flint’s influence, Jennifer finds herself hesitating. A part of her wants to open her heart to Flint, but she’s still haunted by her past. What if Flint is the key to filling the void she’s long felt in her life? Is she ready to dive into what could be the real deal? Find out in this alpha male romance story by Ayo Campbell.

Chapter 1

“Well, who’d a’ thunk it?” Jennifer said, looking out from the podium at the sea of happy, eager, proud and excited people. “Who’d a’ thunk that that chubby, awkward, shy, little black girl, Jenny James, would ever be back here, at her old high school alma-mater, standing proud, and sending off the latest bunch of lovely young graduates. And, despite the school forcing all of you wear those ancient, hideous caps and gowns, you all make them look good.”

The field broke into laughter and applauds.

“Who’d a’ thunk it,” Jennifer went on. “I tell you, the girl in my class voted most-likely-to-succeed, wanted to vote me as most-likely-to-fade-away.”

The audience stirred.

“Well, to that, I will reply,” Jennifer said, holding up her hand, sparkling with rings and bracelets, “take that, Becky Rukle.”

The audience laughed and cheered.

Jennifer had been at odds with herself as to whether or not to use that anecdote. She could never forget the vision that she held in her heart of that chubby, little black girl standing at the bus stop at night, clutching a bunch of gleaming mylar balloons, desperately trying to hold back her tears, and not succeeding.

All through school, she had been a shy girl. She had gone to a small Catholic school; from first grade on, there had only been about thirty students in her class, and the girls far outnumbered the boys. The nuns and teachers had always made sure that play groups were fair, and the pretty and popular girls always had to include the other ones. They had a rule that, on Valentine’s day, everyone had to give a card to everyone else, so that no one would feel left out. They had even determined the size of the cards, so that no one would feel extra special.

In sixth grade, when they were finally allowed to go to the monthly, Friday night dances in the church hall, no one was allowed to ask anyone to be their date. The nuns had arranged that the parents shuttle the kids to the dances in groups, by neighborhood. That way, at the end, when they would all go out for ice cream or pizza in their groups, no one felt left out – or special.

But the kids knew. Romances were known, and when the music started, the boys would show off their affections by asking their girlfriend for the first dance. Of course, the chaperones saw to it that every girl was asked to dance, but with the way they danced with all that whirling and gyrations, on the dance floor it was easy to ignore someone a boy really didn’t care for.

Jennifer hated those pity dances. And she was never asked for a first. One time, she had come so close. Martin Doyle, a boy that she would stare at during math and music classes, actually walked across the room toward her. Jennifer stood, gaping. Her friend Rachel actually gasped as he held out his hand, smiling. Jennifer’s heart leapt – then fell as she saw Martin’s gaze glance past her to Cheryl Purvis standing behind.

At first, Jennifer thought that she should have felt something like a heartbreak. But she didn’t. After she watched Cheryl’s pretty blonde curls bounce onto the dance floor with Martin, she first felt numb, then realized that it was what she should have expected.

“I think,” Rachel said at the pizza parlor later that night, “I think that Martin did that on purpose. I think that he was just being mean.”

Their neighborhood group sat at a round table in the dimly lit restaurant, and Jennifer thought how it looked almost like King Arthur’s court. The boyfriend and girlfriend sat next to one another, while the girls sat flanking the girl and the boys sat beside the boy, until the ladies met the gentlemen again, and there sat the other couple; ‘twas ever thus. The parents sat at their own table, oblivious to the pecking order.

“I think,” Jennifer said, “that you think too much. It wasn’t anything. It just happened.”

“Hey, Clarissa,” Rachael said around Jennifer, “Did you see what Martin did just before the first dance?”

“Everyone saw,” Clarissa said.

And with an incident that Jennifer wanted to just forget, she became the subject of private conversations around the girl’s side of the table. That was when she started to feel embarrassed. She didn’t feel embarrassed about what had happened, but because of how her friends were interpreting it. And through their interpretations, the implication was clear; unless someone new was injected into their closed social circle at school, Jennifer was not going to get a boyfriend.

All that night, her pizza tasted like cardboard.

But, as they were all gathering their things to leave, Clarissa pulled Jennifer aside.

“Hey, Jenny,” she whispered, “come on over my house tomorrow. My mom got her new issue of Cosmo.”

All thoughts of the dance or cardboard pizza vanished from Jennifer’s mind. Clarissa’s mom was a stunningly beautiful woman who worked as a beautician and a bartender. She subscribed to all sorts of beauty and fashion magazines that Jennifer and Clarissa would pour over like boys with a copy of Penthouse. She and Clarissa particularly liked Cosmo because of the s*x-tips articles. They’d giggle a lot, and then read and wonder. That was how Jennifer learned about s*x beyond the textbook.

But Jennifer was also drawn to the fashion and beauty sections. Clarissa would tear out those sections when her mother threw away the magazines, and for the mere price of an ice cream sandwich, twice a week, she’d pass them to Jennifer. Jennifer always wondered what the girl did with the s*x-tips.

Jennifer kept her beauty clippings in an orderly file folder, catalogued and arranged alphabetically by subject – accessories to eyes to undertones. She had paper clipped her encyclopedia entries until the file folder bulged, and needed to be held in place by several rubber bands.

Jennifer always thought of her collection as something that she should keep a secret. She thought that, just like the s*x articles, make-up and fashion were things that a good girl just didn’t dwell on. She knew, of course, that, just like s*x, fashion and beauty would be a part of an adult woman’s life – but in moderation. In religion class, when the boys and girls were separated, the lay teachers would talk of s*x as something wonderful and precious, and that a woman should be proud of her body, and so work to make herself attractive and, well, yes, appealing.

“But, not for the world,” Mrs. Richies would always say. “It is fine to look your best for special occasions, for family events, or, even, on a date. And, after you marry, your husband will want you to be pretty and alluring – for him. But, to go parading about, flaunting your sexuality with that ‘can’t touch this’ attitude, as so many young women do these days, is simply asking for trouble. There are so many perverts out there who would like nothing better than to touch that.”

And then she would launch into horror stories of young girls who flaunted themselves, and what happened to them in the hands of those perverts.

“You can be pretty,” the woman would say, “but don’t be bait.”

Jennifer heard that lecture through sixth, seventh and eighth grades, and she always ended up perplexed. Women were glorifying their bodies all around her; in films, on TV, in advertising, and even on the streets. And, while she would walk the streets in her drab school uniform, she would never see those sexy young things being dragged away. And, Jessica Alba went through life without ever being abducted.

“Jessica Alba is rich,” Rachel said. “She can afford protection.”

“She wasn’t always rich,” Jennifer replied. “Her father was a Mexican in the Air Force. She lived in Mississippi for a while, you know.”

“How do you know that?”