I can’t believe you think this is the best way to deal with this,” I growl at Todd through the small screen on my phone. He cringes slightly at the vehemence in my voice, even though he’s a thousand miles away and probably thanking the fates for inventing FaceTime. It’s not really his fault. It’s the upper management at the record label that decided on this hair-brained scheme. He just has to play the messenger, and he’s the only person available for me to take out my frustrations on.

So I do, copiously. I need to hit the gym and relieve some of this stress. “Really? How is an interview going to make my life more private? Sing songs, play music, go the fuck home . . . that’s all I ask.”

Todd sighs at the repeat of the mantra that’s been the driving force for my career for the last few years. Yeah, I tour, but always in the summer when Carsen and Sarah can come along. During the school year, I play one-shot TV appearances or so-called “secret shows” where it’s marketed as a last-minute gig and usually stuffed with radio personalities and listeners who win tickets. It works for me because I’m usually only gone for a weekend before getting back home to Carsen and my quiet life.

Todd calls it ‘keeping my name out there’ . . . like I need more promotion. I’ve got the career I’ve always dreamed of if the nosy paparazzi would just leave me the hell alone.

“Do we need to do this when I can be there to wrangle you?” Todd asks, deciding to just say fuck it and ignore my protests. “Or can you do this on your own and not be an ass? This is happening, like it or not. The label’s already told the paper, and if you back out—”

“Then the shit really hits the fan,” I growl. I’m this close to calling his bluff. What stops me is the fact that if I don’t talk to this paper, the label will, and not everyone there understands my need for privacy. “Fine, fuck it. I’ll be a fucking gentleman.”

“Good,” Todd replies. “So make sure that you represent yourself in a way that won’t make the label folks shit their pants. Okay?”

I sigh, feeling like a deflated balloon. “I’ll be fine. You know I can bullshit and be charming when I need to be. I get it . . . follow the party line. No woman in my life, obviously. Stick to promoting the new album and next tour. Nothing too personal.”

Todd winces, and I can feel the other shoe about to drop. “Well, not exactly. We sold them on the idea that this is an all-access interview series, and—”

I cut him off, nearly losing my shit again. “All-access? How the hell am I supposed to keep Carsen a secret if it’s fucking all-access?”

Todd rolls his eyes. “As I was saying, we call it all-access because then it seems like you’re giving them everything, but then you corral them some. There are going to be personal questions. Answer them as honestly as possible without giving anything away that you want kept secret.”

“And if they pry into areas that I don’t want to talk about?” I ask.

“It’s called playing coy, for fuck’s sake. Every actress in Hollywood has been doing it since they invented film! You give a smile, a deceptive answer, and let your charm deflect. But by telling them and viewers that it’s you completely uncensored and open, they’ll hopefully quit asking questions. Especially when they see you’re just a nice guy who wants to keep to himself, living out his dream of country music.”

I laugh. He’s got a few points. “That actually is true, so I think I can sell that. Okay, honest . . . to a point. Charming and genuine. Promote. That it?”

Todd claps his hands together, satisfied. “I think that’s probably a tall enough order for today. You good? Really?”

I take a big breath, trying to focus. “Yeah, Todd. I’m good. Thanks for talking me off the ledge. You know I hate attention like this already, and with Carsen, it’s hard to keep from freaking the fuck out.”

Todd, who’s kept my secret well, nods. “I know, Keith. Everything you do is for Carsen and for the music. That always shines through, even when you’re being an ass. That’s why I’m still working with you.”

I laugh. “Naw, that’s not it. You just like those platinum albums on your resume and my pretty-boy face.”

Todd barks out a laugh, getting up from his chair. “Yeah, that’s it, of course. Your mug. Speaking of, you’d better get cleaned up. The reporter will be there at four. Dinner service arrives at six for you two to take a break, and then interview number one ends at eight. I’ll help you arrange a few things for steering, but if you think you’re good, I’ve got a decent trio that’s looking at becoming a bunch of solo acts.”

“Why?” I ask as I run through a mental list of what I need to do . . . starting with locking Carsen’s room. Thank God she’s got her own bathroom.

“Same shit as always. One thinks she’s better than the others . . .”

“Damn. Good luck,” I reply, thinking about one thing. In four hours, a reporter will be asking me questions, digging into my past, my thoughts, and my heart.

It sounds like hell.

As soon as I hang up with Todd, I work like a madman, calling in for an emergency cleaning from my housekeeper as I scrub every trace of Carsen from the common areas. After that, I plaster a smile on my face and get dressed to kill, hoping that at least my country boy charm can carry me through some of this train wreck.

When the doorbell rings promptly at four o’clock, I force myself to inhale deeply a few times, attempting to calm my nerves. The most important thing is that Carsen is over at Sarah’s for the night and I’ve got a plan in mind for an ‘all-access’ grand tour that goes nowhere near her room.

You never know just how eagle-eyed and sneaky reporters can be. Carsen’s door is locked, so if the reporter checks it, she’ll probably think I’ve got some red room of pain hidden upstairs. But honestly, I’d be better with that than if she exposed Carsen.

I open the door and am immediately struck stupid. The woman standing on my front doorstep is gorgeous. She’s tall and lean, but with curves in all the right places, barely contained in the slim-fitting dress she’s wearing.

Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, fully exposing her high cheekbones and the graceful length of her neck. Her blue eyes hold a hint of amusement at my obvious freeze, and something tickles the back of my mind. She seems familiar, but I think I’d remember a woman this beautiful, even if I only glanced at her for a moment.

“Mr. Perkins?” she says after a moment. “I’m Elise Warner from The Daily Spot. I’m here for the interview.”

I nod, but I’m still checking her out, if I’m honest, blood rushing to my cock instead of my brain, so it takes a second for what she said to sink in.

“Wait. Did you say Elise Warner? As in the reporter who started this whole clusterfuck in the first place?” I fume, and she nods. “Oh, fuck this.”

Before I even think about it, I slam the door and walk off into the house. She should know to leave it alone, walk away and maybe send someone else. Someone I don’t want to crucify for fucking with my life. But does she?

Of course not.

Instead, she starts ringing my doorbell over and over like a damn five-year-old. Ring-ring, ring-ring.

I snarl in frustration, turning around halfway down my hallway, and stalk back, yanking the door open. “What?”

In her defense, she doesn’t look cowed by my grumpy assholeness, instead lifting her chin up defiantly. “You’re right, Mr. Perkins. I am the one who reported that you seem to have some interesting things happening in your life. That’s my job . . . to report on things our readers find interesting. And now it seems our jobs align. Mine to interview you and you to be interviewed . . . by me. Or perhaps there was some misunderstanding with your record label? Maybe you should call them? Or I could, if you’d rather.”

I narrow my eyes, taking her measure. She’s bluffing, but somehow, she hit on the one thing I don’t want to do—call the label and tell them I’m not doing this. That happy bunch of assholes would probably just put out a fucking press release saying I’m off the market and probably start selling tickets to some fake engagement party they set up for PR. Instead, Todd’s voice echoes in my ear. Charm her, tell some stories, get on with life. I can do this. I can wrap her around my little finger, no problem. It’s gonna suck big hairy balls, but I can do this.

“Fine. Come on in.”

I leave the door standing open and walk to the living room, not even checking to see if she follows. But she does, of course, closing the door with a soft click, and then her wedge heels swish on the tile floor until quieted by the rug.

She gestures to the chair opposite where I’ve claimed the expanse of couch, and I simply raise one eyebrow, but she takes it as permission and sits down daintily before taking out her phone, a small notebook, and a pink sparkly pen. Seriously?

“Okay, Mr. Perkins, I’d like to go over my thoughts for the interview series first so we can make sure we’re on the same page. Is that okay?”

She smiles like she’s trying to soothe an angry bear, and hell, I guess she kinda is. I lean back, letting my arm stretch out over the back of my couch, relaxing a bit.

“Keith.”

Elise, who’s checking her notes, looks up. “Excuse me?”

I chuckle, rubbing at my head. “For the love of fuck, call me Keith. Not Mr. Perkins. That was my dad.”

I see her mouth twitch a bit and she mouths, ‘for the love of fuck’ before shaking her head, seemingly amused at my random turn of phrase. Still, she blushes just slightly, and I find it . . . well, she looks even hotter now. “Okay, Keith. And please call me Elise. Does that sound like a plan?”

I nod as graciously as I can muster, which is basically not at all. Hot or not, she’s in my private territory, and I’m doing my best to just be polite. “Sure.”

“So, I’m thinking that you’re obviously an enigma and your fans want to know more about you, especially since you tend to shun the spotlight. That’s really rare in this day and age, when most stars can’t seem to hog the spotlight enough.”

“I like having my privacy, that’s all. Always have.”

Elise nods, leaning forward. “And I think a series of interviews will give us a nice peek into your life. I understand your point of view.”

“Is that so?”

Elise gives me a heartstopping smile, nodding. “I know you don’t believe me, but yes. So maybe a past, present, future setup or something more along the lines of your professional life and personal life mixed in with tidbits about your history in each? All in all, just a bigger, better picture of who you are. It’ll satisfy the fans and keep reporters like me, but with a lot less morals, off your doorstep. I’ll know about the structure as we see where the interviews naturally lead. Anything you want to add or that’s off limits?”

My first thought is that everything is off limits, but I know I can’t say that, so I simply nod in agreement before I think better of it. “Actually, Elise . . .”

The name sounds sweet on my tongue, making me remember just how damn sexy she looked all fired up, standing in my doorway and calling me on my shit. Her cheeks are still a bit flushed from the fiery exchange, and now that she’s leaning toward me, I can see her voluptuous breasts pressing fully against her dress.

It helps, and the idea that was hatching in my head a moment ago suddenly seems a lot more possible. I turn on the charm, dropping my voice a bit. “Elise . . . this is obviously not by my choice. I’m very much a private person, and I like to be in control . . . of my image, of my music, of what I do and don’t do . . . honestly, I like to be in control of everything. So these interviews chafe against that by their very nature. How about we make a deal, you and me?”

I don’t miss the way her breath hitches when I mention being in control. Deliciously interesting. She licks her lips, her little pink tongue darting out, and I have a flash of her tongue licking me all over. My cock twitches, and I realize . . . maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

“What kind of deal did you have in mind?” she asks, her voice a bit breathy. I smile, knowing I’ve got her on the hook.

“Let’s make a deal that for every question you ask me, I get to ask one back. You want to know me, but that’s very one-sided. Of course, I won’t be writing a tell-all expose of your private life like you seem to want to do about me. So the least you can do is make this a little easier, a little more conversational and less of an interrogation. What do you say?”

She bites her lip, thinking about it, and I want to soothe the bite with my tongue. Or shit, maybe bite her lip myself while she fucks herself on my fingers. “I don’t know—”

“I’ll keep it just between us,” I reassure her. “Just think of it as a little pain to go with the pleasure. What do you say?”

Part of me hopes she says yes to the deal so that I have an upper hand. Part of me wants her to say no, and then I can show her out the front door and not do the interviews at all. But the biggest part of me, or maybe just the hardest part, wants her to say yes because I want to push her, see what she’ll share, how honest she’ll be when I poke and prod at her deepest secrets.

Honestly, if she left right now, I’d be jacking off to thoughts of her on her knees sucking me off within seconds, not sending up praise at the lack of interviews.

Curious for her answer, I wait silently, eyes locked on hers.

Let’s see who wins.