Elise

“Yes, sir. I’m on it, sir. By Monday, of course.” I sigh, rolling my eyes as Donnie, my boss, somehow manages to both ream me out for not delivering yet and make me feel like I can totally accomplish my latest assignment.

I’m not sure how he manipulates people so well, but he does. It’s a gift, I guess.

Hanging up, I look at myself in the mirror, making sure my disguise for today is in tip-top shape. I’m not famous, but my face is known enough that I want to be sure I’m not recognized. My blonde hair is tied up under a dark brunette wig that falls down in perfect mermaid waves, my usually slightly made-up face is fully done like I’m some YouTube makeup tutorial, and I’m dressed in casual clothes that scream money in quality, not flash. I’ve got on the one pair of designer jeans I own, a perfectly slouchy tee, and a fluffy soft hand-knit cardigan.

With the addition of my huge sunglasses and heeled booties, I’m off . . . looking just like one of the other millions of twentysomethings, out for coffee and to run errands. Which is exactly what I need, nondescript from the masses.

It’s nowhere near my normal look, but that’s what makes it a great disguise. Glancing at my watch, I realize I’ll need to take a cab if I’m making my first observation point on time. At least I can turn the receipt in for reimbursement because taking cabs all over the city is definitely above my pay bracket.

I hope Donnie isn’t going to be a prick on the expense report this time.

After a quick ride, I order a coffee and a blueberry muffin before sitting down at what’s become my table over the last week, taking out a notebook full of scribbled notes. To an interested observer, I’m working on a movie, or maybe a TV show, or something similarly vapid. I assume an aura of ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ and pretend to work, which makes a great cover because I am actually working, just not on what it seems.

Keeping my head still behind the shades, my eyes move left and right, not missing a thing. From the obviously morning-after coffee date, to the mom juggling two kids while bribing them with muffins that look just like mine and will put those two into sugar overload in ten minutes, to the old man reading the paper. I’ve worked long and hard on these skills. They’re more vital to my career than the ability to type quickly.

It’s not long before my target appears. Keith Perkins, the country music star who’s topping charts and winning awards left and right. He walks in to order his morning cup o’joe. He’s not really in disguise, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but the missing cowboy hat and tennis shoes instead of boots seem to be all the disguise he needs to go about unrecognized in this town. Then again, this isn’t a big country town. I bet he couldn’t pull this off in Nashville without getting mobbed.

He tells the barista his name is Kevin instead of Keith, but I don’t think she even looks up. In fact, I know she doesn’t look at him, because if she did, she’d be drooling like I’ve been for the last five days since I started my assignment.

There’s something about the way he moves, like coiled power waiting to spring into action, that makes me hum with anticipation. Combine that with a build that’s tall and wide-shouldered, with powerfully built arms and a tightly muscled waist that’s so narrow that he can’t wear normal jeans without squeezing his thighs and leaving his waist baggy . . . the man’s walking sex on a stick. He’s infused with energy in such a way that you can’t help but wonder what he could to with it.

Or what he could do to me with it.

I shake my head, a small smile tilting up one corner of my mouth. As if. That’s never gonna happen. I’m not the sort who gets wooed and swept off her feet by handsome stars who then proceed to wine and dine me before making my toes curl. No. With my job, I have a better chance of my name ending up pinned on a voodoo doll than my body being pinned to a bed.

My job is to follow Keith and watch that fine ass and dimpled smile as much as possible to find out his secrets. Once those secrets are in hand, I’ll write a damn good story for the online gossip rag I work for. It’s not my dream gig. Hell, I’ve hated it at times, but it’s interesting and pays the bills. I wanted to be a real investigative reporter. I wanted to follow in the steps of Woodward and Bernstein, exposing the back-alley machinations and dirty laundry of those who really deserve it. Those in power who are trying to fuck the average Joe.

Too bad most of the reporters on that gig are just as dirty as the assholes they’re covering. So I get to watch and report on celebs. But it pays the bills, so here I am lusting after the mark I’m following in preparation to expose all of his dirty laundry to readers who circle like vultures. Sometimes, I feel sorry for people like Keith. He’s not into drugs or acting like a jackass, and I’ve even listened to his music. It’s music to make you feel good. And make my panties wet, but that’s his voice. He could read his grocery list and I’d be all ears.

Knowing his routine, I start to gather my things, ready to follow out a few seconds behind him. As he walks out the door, questions run through my head, mental preparation for what’s coming. Where are we going today, Keith? The recording studio? Maybe the quiet spot at the gastropub you like to write at that has those bacon cheeseburgers that I have no idea how you eat and still have a six-pack? No jelly there. Or maybe just some errands? I could really use some errands so I have more to complete your picture.

He doesn’t answer, of course, but I carry on the conversation with myself as if he does. Sounds good, I can learn more that way. Maybe after your errands, you can take me home and fuck me stupid? Make that tight ass of yours good for something . . . pounding into my needy pussy. How’s that for a plan, Keith?

God, I need a man.

It’s been months since my last boyfriend, the bastard. While I’m known for being a spontaneous, up for anything kinda girl, I don’t sleep around and have pretty discerning taste. Which, of course, is how I find myself fantasizing about Keith’s ass as he walks down the street, sort of looking down as he walks, maybe to hide his face from the public or maybe because he’s got his own internal dialogue going. It’s too much to hope he’s thinking about the sexy brunette in designer jeans and sunglasses he saw in the corner of the coffee shop and how he’d like to take her home and make all her dreams come true, but fuck it, I’m allowed to fill in the blanks here.

He pauses in front of a store and looks back, so I step over to a potted plant in front of a store as cover, jostling the sidewalk traffic flow as a younger guy on rollerblades yells at me, “Watch it, bitch!”

I scowl, not wanting the attention, and quickly bury my face in my phone but sneak looks out the side of my sunglasses as I catch my breath.

Focus, Elise. Get your brain out of the gutter and do your fucking job!

Suitably chastised by my own more responsible half, I continue on, following Keith into . . . a grocery store?

Wouldn’t have expected Mr. Fancy Country Singer to be buying his own food. With online delivery and personal assistants running rampant around this town, I just never imagined him buying his own jars of basil pesto. Still, the fact that he does is cute, sweet, and maybe even a bit humble. I like this down-to-earth potential tilt to my story, so I sneak a few pics of him pushing his cart around the store, an old-fashioned piece of paper in his hand as he goes over his grocery list.

Following at a distance, I grab a few things totally at random as cover while I try to scope out what he’s buying to see if there’s anything interesting that’ll tell me his secrets.

Bread . . . boring, it’s not even fancy, just plain old wheat bread. Steaks . . . no surprise, although I wish I could afford a nice rib-eye every now and then. Speaking of USDA prime beef, God, I could take a bite of his biceps. Yummy. Milk . . . so 1990. Wait, not milk. He’s buying milks, two different kinds of milk . . . skim and whole, a half-gallon each. And the skim milk is that special type for people who are lactose intolerant.

That’s unusual, right? I mean, if you drink milk, you’re not likely to go for two drastically different fat contents. Unless he cooks? Maybe the skim is to drink and the whole is to cook?

Hmm, could be. But then, why the lactose intolerant one? I’ve tasted it myself, and no matter what the makers say, it’s crap compared to the real thing.

I keep following as he walks . . . into the feminine hygiene aisle. Jackpot.

Why would a notoriously single man, one whom women literally throw themselves at and are routinely rebuked, be buying tampons and pads? Because he’s not single anymore! The little news ticker in my brain rolls by . . . Hearts break all across America as Keith Perkins confirms he’s off the market, ladies. News at ten o’clock.

He’s stockpiling his house. By the looks of the third box of goodies he tosses in the basket, he’s got damn-near a full medicine cabinet in there. I sneak another pic for proof and follow him up toward the front of the store.

Choosing the line behind him, I consider maybe taking a chance to say something. It’s risky, but I might be able to tease some nugget of information out of the potential encounter. After setting his items on the conveyor belt, he looks at me.

I smile my biggest, flirtiest smile, expecting him to see stars. This smile has gotten me into more private rooms, parties, and information trades than I could say . . . unless you’re paying.

But from Keith, nothing. Not even a returned smile. His eyes slide over me and then back to the conveyor belt as he watches the little display show each item as it’s rung up.

How rude!

The whole encounter, Keith ignores me and barely speaks to the cashier. Most of the noise is grunts and mmm-hmms coming from him in response to the cashier’s chatter. She doesn’t seem to know who he is either. I get that we’re not in a country town, but do none of these people listen to country music? Or music period?

You wouldn’t think he’d be able to take off his hat and be incognito, but apparently, he can. Clark Kent, eat your fucking heart out. He pays—cash, I notice—and grabs his bags, disappearing out the door in a hurry. Shit, did he make me?

I pay for my mismatched bread, soda, and candy bar and hustle out behind him, wishing I hadn’t grabbed that bag of tater tots as part of my cover for going down the frozen food aisle because it wasted precious time telling the cashier I’d changed my mind about them. I’m so busy looking left and right down the sidewalk, trying to find his bald head above the crowd, that I don’t notice when he steps out right in front of me.

His chest is like running into a brick wall, bouncing off a slab of iron hard muscle that barely gives. I cry out in surprise, more of a startled squeak really, but before I fall, he captures my arm in a tight grip. For a split second, we’re in tight proximity and I can feel the thrum of hot control resonating from him, and it makes me drunk. Suddenly, I’m aware of where my hand is, and it’s cupping something big, warm . . . and I bet it would get even bigger if I had a chance. I feel my face heat and am momentarily thankful for the caked-on makeup to hide the flush racing along my cheeks.

The makeup can’t hide the shiver that rushes through my body though, straight to my core as I’m reminded once again how fucking sexy Keith is. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I finally squeak out in a voice that’s about an octave higher than I normally have. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

It isn’t until I’m finished that realization hits me, and I start praying this was accidental. The last thing I need is his figuring out that I’m part of the press and that I’ve been following him.

Keith looks down at me, no small task considering I’m five seven in bare feet and usually feel part Amazon by the time I get high heels on. Even in running shoes, I can stand eye to eye with the average man.

As I look up, though, I realize I could wear my highest heels and he’d still be taller than me, still be able to bend me over and fuck me senseless. God, every thought I have of this guy is about sex. Either I’m really that desperate to fuck, he’s that sexy, or both. Either way, I need a new vibrator. Hello, Amazon Prime, you are amazing. Two-Day shipping? Yes, please!

Luckily, my traitorous eyes are covered in sunglasses so he can’t know what I’m thinking, but regardless of whether he can catch my vibe or not, he doesn’t seem impressed.

“Well, maybe you should watch where you’re going then,” he half growls, steadying me for a moment. “This isn’t the sort of place for daydreaming.”

Without another look, he strides off down the street. I stare at him, too shocked to even stammer a reply.

What an asshole! I think for a split second before I realize that yeah, I was following him, but he didn’t know that for sure!

A tiny thought jumps through my mind, reminding me how hard his body felt, how strong his grip on my arm was as he kept me from falling. And yes, the feeling of what’s inside his jeans, even if it was only for a microsecond. For a moment, I’m torn. Should I keep following him? Or now that he’s had eye-to-sunglass contact with me, would that be too suspicious? I decide the risk isn’t worth it. Besides, I think I have exactly what I need.

There’s a woman in Keith’s life. It isn’t me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to tell the world about it.

Get ready, Keith. Your dirty laundry is getting hung out to dry.

Keith

“What the fuck, Todd?” I explode into my phone as I do my damndest not to hurl my computer across the room to shatter into a million pieces against the wall. “Have you seen this shit?”

Through the phone, I hear Todd, my manager, trying to placate me. “I know, Keith. And I’m sorry. I’m looking into it as quickly as I can.”

Quickly? I’m paying Todd a lot of money to make sure this isn’t something that needs to be handled quickly. In this particular matter, I’ve made it clear that this should never be an issue. “Todd, the headline is ‘Keith, who’s the girl?’” I fume as I keep reading. “Fans want to know who’s captured the heart of the rogue country star. Why would they even think there’s a girl? I’m not dating anyone. Everyone knows that.”

Todd sighs, and in my mind, I can see him now, sitting at his antique oak desk, the little vein in his left temple pulsing to his heartbeat. “That’s just it, man. Everyone knows you don’t date, and that’s . . . odd for a celebrity of your success. I tried to get you to do some image work . . . show up for a few awards shows with another star, but nooooo, you didn’t want to hear it. So people get curious.”

I’ve heard all of this before, but I hate being fake. There are too many wannabes and fake ass people in this business for my liking as it is. I refuse to be one too.

“Well, fuck everyone’s curiosity. My private life is my own. I sing songs, I make records, ones that have won some pretty sweet awards. I put on concerts, and we’ve done some damn good shows, I think. But that’s it, I’m not available for public comment on my private life. I don’t ask what they do with the life-sized posters I sign for them, and they don’t get to ask what I do in my home.”

Todd clicks into business mode, no longer trying to appease me, beginning the same conversation we’ve had over and over again for all the years we’ve worked together. I didn’t hire him because he’s a friend but because he knows the damn business. “Keith, there’s nothing to be ashamed of here. You went grocery shopping and bought supplies for your daughter. Maybe it’s time you tell the truth.”

I inhale deeply, counting to ten before I let it out, willing it to calm me. It’s maybe only slightly successful. “We’ve talked about this. No. Carsen is only twelve years old, and I want her to have as normal a childhood as she possibly can. If people know about her, she’ll get hounded nonstop. She’ll need a security detail to go to school, for Christ’s sake, and never be able to grow up on her own. Never mind the fact that people are going to do some simple math and figure out that I fathered a child when I was still in high school. That’ll start a whole other heap of questions, ones I don’t want to fucking go into. The public isn’t entitled to know about her, to have an opinion on what she’s wearing or how I’m raising her, or fucking bring up her mother. No.”

I can hear the resignation in Todd’s voice. We’ve had this argument too many times. “I know. And I understand. It’s gonna happen at some point, though. She can’t stay hidden forever.”

I chuckle darkly. “The hell she can’t. If Hannah fucking Montana could pull it off for years, so can I.”

Todd groans. “That was a fictional Disney show. And let’s face it, I doubt you want your daughter doing what Miley Cyrus is doing in the real world now.”

“I know it’s fictional, dumbass. But I’ll make sure Carsen has her fairytale Disney ending. She deserves that.”

“Fine, fine, I can see I’m getting nowhere with you,” Todd says, the exasperation with me obvious. His tone changes to one intended to be more placating. “Really, Keith . . . is Carsen okay after all of this?”

“Some bitch reporter made my little girl’s first period into an expose about how I’ve supposedly got some new fucktoy. Ten million people now know what brand of fucking maxi pads I bought for her!” I growl, pissed off. “How do you think Carsen is doing?”

I hear Todd gulp and have a little mercy on him. He’s kept my situation secret for nearly five years, a century in celebrity terms. “Sorry, man.”

I shake my head, sighing. “No, it’s okay. She’s doing fine, mostly. She didn’t realize that the feminine shit was what brought up the questions. Thinks it’s just the usual speculation.”

Todd hums, and I can hear the steel in his voice. He’s a damn good manager, a good man overall, really. “I’m gonna fix this. I’m not sure how, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do your best. And do it fast, Todd.” I grunt as a goodbye before I hang up. As soon as I do, I realize Sarah, my older sister, is standing in the doorway and likely heard everything I just said.

Sarah’s leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, her long brown hair hanging down nearly to her waist, the same color as mine if I didn’t keep my head shaved by choice. “Little rough on Todd there, weren’t you?”

I can see the disapproving look in her eye, reminding me so much of Mom. We both got our height and physique from her, although thankfully, I inherited Dad’s wide shoulders, or else I’d look like a ripped string bean.

“Not really,” I reply evenly. “It’s his job to handle things, to make sure nothing like this happens. But it did, so now he can fucking fix it. Fast.”

Sarah sighs, giving me an amused eyebrow. “Why didn’t you just call me? I could’ve gone to the store and there wouldn’t have been an issue. You know, if I go buy maxi pads, nobody gives a shit.”

I sigh, feeling trapped. On one hand, I know she’s right. On the other hand, every time I’d have to do it, I’d feel like the world’s shittiest father. It’s a no-win situation. “I know, Sarah. And you know how much I appreciate everything you do . . . for me and for Carsen. But I’m her dad, you know? She needed something, and it’s my job to provide it, so I went to the fucking grocery store. It shouldn’t have been a big deal.”

I plop to the couch, elbows on my spread knees and my head hung low. It’s been hard, raising a little girl without her mother, no help from her grandparents, and only my big sister to turn to. I can’t even ask more from Sarah. She’s a beautiful young woman with her own life to live. It’d be unfair for me to demand she be even more of a surrogate mother to Carsen. And no matter what . . . “I just didn’t want to be a failure of a father.”

Sarah sits beside me, putting an arm around my shoulder like she did when we were little and I had to turn to her for comfort in the bad times. “You take good care of her, Keith. No doubt to anyone who knows you two how much you love that little girl. She has everything she needs right here with you, but you don’t have to do it alone. I love that girl like she’s my own. Damn-near raised her right along with you, remember?”

I place my hand on hers, patting it. “Thanks, Sarah. I know you love her, and I don’t know what we’d have done without you all these years, but I hate that something that should be simple, like getting groceries, just isn’t anymore.” I sigh. “Hell, maybe I need a break. Just step away from the spotlight for a few years until Carsen gets older?”

Sarah shakes her head. “No chance in hell. You have worked your ass off to chase your dream, Keith. ‘All those years’ you’re talking about? I remember them too. I remember you working days at shitty job after shitty job before singing nights. I remember my working a full-time job and bringing Carsen to some seedy places to hear you sing when she was just a toddler. I remember you holding her to your chest with one hand, writing songs with the other while you hummed her to sleep at night.”

I smile slightly, remembering those nights too. “She couldn’t sleep as a baby unless I was holding her.”

“And she still loves you just as much,” Sarah reminds me. “So all that hard work? You made it, Keith. You got your dream, and you need to grab onto it with both hands and hang on tight for as long as the ride goes. Because you know what the rap god says.”

I nod. Sarah’s always been more into hip hop than I am, but I know the lyrics. “When the run’s over, just admit it’s at an end.”

“And in the meantime, get as much as you can out of it,” Sarah adds. “So yeah, it’s awkward right now, and the fact that something happened that is beyond your control is killing you . . .”

I try to interrupt to disagree, but she talks over me. “Please, Keith. You’re the biggest control freak I’ve ever met. And this hit you out of left field and you don’t like it. But suck it up, buttercup. It’ll blow over, and trust Todd to make sure it does. In the meantime, you know you’ve got a moment, maybe two or three. Hang onto them and give you and your daughter the rest of a life together afterward.”

I huff, knowing she’s right. “Fine. You’re right. As hard as I’ve worked to make a career singing, I’ll give it all up in a split second if it’s bad for Carsen though. You know that.”

Sarah smiles, reaching up and rubbing my head like she used to when we were kids. “Of course you would. But look around you, Keith. She’s fine, goes to a great school, has great friends, lives in a gorgeous house like nothing we could’ve ever imagined when we were kids, and is happy.”

I smile, looking around. You could probably fit our childhood home in just this room. Hell, this house has more bathrooms than we had rooms back then. We’ve definitely moved up in life since those days.

“Thanks, Sarah,” I finally say, leaning back and relaxing some. “You know how to make things sound right.”

She nods, and I’m struck by how far we’ve come, brother and sister against the world. Needing a lighter moment before those childhood memories take over my brain, I tease her a little. “You sound just like Mom.”

She grins, sticking her tongue out at me. “Well, thank you. I’m choosing to take that as the compliment I’m sure you intended it to be.”

I laugh, giving her a side hug. “Yeah, definitely a compliment, Sis.”

Elise

I can’t quite be sure, but it feels like I’m floating into work as I walk down the sidewalk. It’s only been two days . . . but what a two days. I knew that story was going to be hot. I was ecstatic when Donnie agreed to give me the top header with the biggest page square footage and a big byline on our site’s homepage. I’ve already snapped screen grabs of it for posterity. It’s tabloid trash, but one day, those disguises and stalker skills are going to land me my dream job as a real investigative reporter.

I’m not picky, obviously, considering what I’m doing now. But I would like to do more than tabloid celeb hunting. Still, it was some damn fine surveillance if I say so myself. Well, other than when I ran into Keith. That was some newbie shit there, but he didn’t seem to figure out I was a reporter, at least. If anything, he probably thought I was just a fan girl trying to get an autograph or maybe cop a feel . . . which I certainly remember, even if that was a tidbit I couldn’t publish in order to cover my ass.

Wonder if he’s still trying to figure out who at the grocery store scoped him out for the expose?

I pause for coffee, greeting my coworkers Maggie and Francesca as they linger around the pot waiting for refills. They look like a study in opposites. Maggie is tiny, a deceptively curvy blonde who rocks the nerdy-librarian look while maintaining an appearance much younger than her twenty-five years. She’s a little shy but a total sweetheart once you get past her armor.

Meanwhile, Francesca is an exotic and willowy brunette who carries the practiced presence of her younger years in pageants. She never fails to mention she was second runner-up Miss Teen New Jersey. No wonder I detest the bitch sometimes.

So they’re polar opposites in personality, with Maggie being more shy and reserved to Francesca’s extroverted cockiness, but coffee is the eternal common denominator.

Francesca sips her coffee, toasting me slightly. “Congrats on the country singer story, Elise. Got everything you could want with that one.”

The words are right, but there’s a cattiness to her tone that’s always there with her. She’s always a bit chilly with anyone she perceives as a threat and sometimes an outright bitch if she doesn’t get her way.

I pour myself a mug and make sure to keep my voice neutral. “Thank you. It was hard work so I’m glad it paid off.”

She laughs, putting more meaning to words than I’d intended. “Oh, trust me, I do plenty of hard work for my stories too,” she says as she almost disgustingly slurps down a mouthful of coffee, hinting at her meaning. “It pays off in some ways more than others.”

With a wink, Francesca refills and sashays to her desk. I shake my head as Maggie half chokes on her coffee as she finally gets the meaning. Leaning in closer, she stage-whispers. “Did she just mean . . .?”

I smirk, giving Maggie a glance. “Of course. She’s totally been fucking Donnie to get the prime stories. Has been for months. Why do you think her reports are always from fancy parties, galas, and red carpet events? Hello, preferential treatment. You seriously didn’t know?”

Maggie blushes a little and shrugs. “Well, I knew she was doing something to get Donnie’s attention, and the rumors are always flying. But she’s so casual about it, just throwing it out in conversation.”

I grin, smacking Maggie’s arm. “You’re so cute when you go Dorothy Gale on me. Remember, hun, this ain’t Kansas. Besides, I can’t say I’m jealous. I’d rather work for my stories than get them by giving Donnie blow jobs under the desk. Can you imagine the dust bunnies under there? And eww on sucking his gross dick. I like my facials at the spa, thank you very much.”

I half-feign a full-body shudder of disgust, and Maggie laughs. “Ew. Now I’ll have that image in my head all day. Thanks a lot, Elise. You suck!”

I grin, blowing Maggie a kiss. “Well, in the right circumstances, yes, I do suck. Even been told I’m pretty good at it. But I think we’ve established that it’s not happening here.”

I scan the room with a pointed finger. “Yup, not happening, not happening, not happening, and never, even if he was the last male on Earth and we needed to repopulate the species. So . . . what are you working on now?”

Maggie laughs again, brightening my day. I love making Maggie laugh and blush. She’s so easy since she’s a bit innocent, and I’ve got no shame in my game and generally give zero fucks. “Nothing great. I’m currently looking into a senator who’s supposedly cheating on his wife. But I’ve been undercover as a copy-making volunteer in his office for two weeks and haven’t seen anything other than a man who works too many hours. Seems like a bust.”

“Sorry about that. At least he’s not cheating. Hell, that alone would likely make me vote for him, considering the options lately.”

Maggie grins, nodding. “Yup. He’s even polite. I’ve been wearing my cutest tight skirt and blouse whenever I go by, and he keeps looking in my eyes.”

“Maybe you don’t have the equipment that entices him?” I ask, making Maggie laugh. “What? He wouldn’t be the first politician to reach across the aisle for entertainment.”

“Nah,” Maggie says, smiling. Waving fingers at me, she walks off. “See you later, babe.”

Refilling my coffee to the top, I head to my desk too but am sidetracked by Donnie’s yelling. “Elise! Get your ass in here!”

Damn, you’d think a great prime story would at least get me twenty-four hours of peace, but apparently not. I consider saying as much as I sit in the chair across from Donnie, but when I see how red his face is, I decide to leave it be. Fuck it, I don’t need the headache. “What’s up?”

Donnie’s in a pissed off mood for some reason. “You’ve got proof on the Perkins story?”

I nod, confused but answering anyway. “Of course. Pics of him in the store, putting things in the shopping cart, including maxi pads in the hygiene aisle, and then again at the register for a close-up. Why?”

Donnie sighs, running his fingers through his thinning, greasy hair, and again I’m reminded why I could never get to the top the way Francesca does. I might be a girl who enjoys sex, but I’ve got standards. Donnie ticks none of my boxes. “I just hung up with Perkins’ people. They want a retraction and correction.”

My jaw drops open. It happens in our business from time to time, but it’s never happened to me. I’m too damn good at my job. “No way. I followed him legally, pics are in public places, thus legal, it’s obviously him, and I didn’t say anything that could be libel. It’s all true.”

Donnie smiles, relieving me a little bit. “I know. That’s what I told the guy who called too, but I just wanted to check.”

“I appreciate that you had my back,” I tell him honestly. Donnie’s a sleazeball, but he’s a dedicated sleaze. He won’t back down from a story he prints unless he has to, and that usually involves lawyers. “So, what now? We’re obviously not pulling the story, right?”

Donnie shakes his head, reaching for the bowl of jellybeans he keeps on the corner of his desk and popping three into his mouth. “No, actually, when I told him that wasn’t going to happen, he had another idea that’s pretty interesting. He proposed a series of interviews, probably three or four at least—but maybe more—with Perkins himself.”

Perkins himself? At the words, my pulse quickens. I can’t seem to keep my thoughts about him not tied up in how fucking sexy he is. “Really?”

Donnie nods. “They’re doing some damage control and wanting to write their own narrative about his life. Control the narrative, you know?”

“That sounds great!” I exclaim gleefully, and not totally professionally. “When do I meet with him?”

Donnie laughs, almost like he’s amused I’d ask. “I’m thinking Frannie can take this one, Elise.”

My jaw drops. Oh, hell no! Giving the best initial slots to Francesca because she’s giving you her slot? I get that . . . but to take a story from me? “Like hell! This is my story . . . a follow-up from my expose. It should go to me and you know it, Donnie.”

He narrows his eyes at me, not liking that I questioned him, but I’m right. This is my story. A small piece of me wants to stamp my foot and yell Mine! but since that’s not likely to get me what I want, I quickly figure out a different tactic.

“Donnie, look. This story should go to me, and I know you . . . appreciate Francesca’s work,” I choke out, almost gagging to have to say that, “but she’s going to be busy with red carpet events for the next two weeks when those new blockbusters come out. You know those comic book movies make big bucks and get big stars at the premieres.”

Donnie makes a humming sound in the back of his throat, seemingly in no hurry to hand down his decision while I’m waiting on pins and needles. Do I need to bring up the fact that the whole office knows Francesca’s using her . . . assets to get ahead with head? Finally, Donnie speaks. “Okay. You can do it. Interviews with Perkins, and I want all the dirty details, ins and outs of his life, all of it. Can you do that?”

I nod, relieved. “Of course!”

Getting up to leave before Donnie changes his mind, I stop at the door when he calls my name. “Hey, Elise? Just FYI . . . Perkins is pissed as fuck for the story because everyone knows he’s majorly private. And he’ll know who you are from the byline. You might have six feet three inches of raging cowboy to deal with. Be ready. And get those secrets.”

I nod, my mind focusing on the words inches and raging. “Yes, sir.”

Keith

“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.

Elise

This is not going how I thought it would at all. I was expecting a bit of country boy charm, some hospitality, and maybe some pat interview answers. I figured I’d have to work to get deeper, tease out Keith’s personality for the articles. I was prepared to dig, to have to wiggle my way into his trust so he’d relax and be real with me.

What I didn’t expect was his huge body, clad in jeans and a white button-down shirt that seems to be molded to his bulk, looking so damn sexy when he opened the door. I guess I should have. I ogled his ass for an entire week to get that scoop.

For some reason, the bare head and feet made him seem casual, comfortable until he’d realized who I am. He definitely lit up then, anger flashing in his eyes, and I got a hint of the cold fire in his core.

It’s that cold fire that seems to draw me in. I don’t feel like I’m in control, but instead, we’re jockeying, wrestling for who gets to take charge.

He’s clearly doing these interviews begrudgingly, which makes his deal all the more unusual. I don’t think for one second that he wants to know a damn thing about me, some annoying reporter digging into his private life when he wants desperately to keep it private.

And so we’re in this little silent war, my body saying one thing while my professionalism says another. After all, why would he want to ask me questions?

I realize the answer. He told me as plain as day. It’s a control move. His way of showing that even in a situation beyond his control, he’s in power here. So we keep wrestling, doing our little dance and seeing who gets to be on top.

But really, is that so bad? To let him demonstrate some semblance of being the boss here, if it gets me what I want . . . him to answer my questions. Right, that’s why I’m thinking of sweaty bodies pinning each other to the floor, or a bed, or . . .

Fuck it. It’s not like I have anything to hide with my boring life, so he can fire away with his questions.

Decision made, I meet his dark eyes to see fire flashing there. So much anger . . . at me or at the situation, maybe both? Or is what I’m seeing as anger just passion?

I straighten my back, keeping the stare contest going. “Tell you what, Keith. I’ll agree to your deal . . . If you answer honestly and fully any question I ask and help me write an interesting, exciting story about you. You do that, and I’ll return the favor. Complete and full honesty to any question.”

He studies me, and I can feel him visually taking my measure as an opponent before he gets up, towering over me as he offers a hand. I shake it, noticing that his large hand engulfs mine. “Deal. Fair warning, Elise. You just made a deal with the devil for your soul.”

I grin at his dramatics, but there’s a little swarm of bees in my belly concerned that maybe there’s more truth to what he’s saying than I’m expecting. I expected Keith Perkins to be a little bit of a bumpkin, a good ol’ country boy who might be a little hostile but still stunned by the chic city girl with smooth verbal skills. Instead, he’s controlled, and he’s obviously a damn sight smarter than I’ve given him credit for . . . and that makes him all the more attractive. And a hell of a lot more dangerous.

We settle back more comfortably in our seats, and I pick up my phone, starting the voice recorder before setting it on the table in front of me as he sits back down with the grace of a tiger in his lair. He doesn’t react to my recorder, but I explain anyway, covering my ass. “I hope you don’t mind. Recording the sessions is just part of the deal, to make sure I’m correct with any quotes.” I give him a slight death glare, remembering how his label wanted a retraction and correction as if I’d been incorrect about my reporting.

He doesn’t say anything but gives me a look of tortured pain. I figure since he’s not arguing, I might as well run with it and charge ahead. “So first, let’s get the basics out of the way . . . the Wikipedia version of who Keith Perkins is. Tell me about yourself.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes, and I know it’s exactly the kind of question he’s had to answer a million times before. But I need it direct from the source for the articles, and it helps break the ice a little, gets him talking on comfortable ground.

Finally, he starts. “My name’s Keith Tiberius Perkins. I’m a musician, a singer-songwriter. I’m thirty years old, born and raised in Idaho in a tiny town nobody’s ever heard of, including some of the people who lived there. As soon as I graduated high school, I left home for Boise to play in local dive bars and clubs. I even had to use a fake ID to get in because I was underage. As far as my mom was concerned, I might as well have run off to New York City or even hell, judging by her reaction. But I learned, worked hard, and after a few years, moved to Nashville to play in hole-in-the-wall dives there with every other dreamer. Got discovered one night, signed a contract with my label, and now here I am, years later, hit songs and awards later, doing interviews I hate.”

I grin. He’d been doing so well until the end there. I do wonder, though—why leave Nashville? They’d worship him around there. What brought him to this area of the country, not exactly New York but still, not quite the center of country music?

“Sounds like you’re living the dream, huh?”

Keith smirks, then remembers where he is and grows serious again. “Yeah, I worked hard for a lot of years on my music. Still do. That’s all I want to do . . . write songs, sing them for people, and go home. Alone.”

“Damn, dude, like a dog with a bone. Let it go. I get it. I’m in your man cave that’s the size of a McMansion, but I’m really not trying to be a bitch here.”

He shoots forward in his chair, giving me a fierce look, and I realize I said that out loud, not in my head. “Excuse me?”

Shit.

Backpedaling, I try to smooth over the accidental out-loud monologue. “Sorry for saying that out loud, but not for thinking it.”

I smirk at him, virtually daring him to puff all up in anger again.

Instead, he sits back in the couch, pointing a finger at me and dropping his voice to a sexy commanding growl. “My turn. Tell me about yourself, Elise Warner.”

I smile, liking this game. If a bullet point list of all things me is what you want, I’ll give it to you, asshole. You’re not in control of things yet.

“I’m Elise Warner, twenty-six, grew up here in East Robinsville, and went to school at State where I got my journalism degree. Did some small-time reporting for the local paper before getting hired by The Daily Spot, where I write celebrity tabloid crap but get to keep my investigative skills fresh. And this interview series is a big deal for me, so don’t fuck it up. Please.”

He huffs out a surprised laugh. I don’t think he was expecting me to be so honest or so confrontational with him. By his smile, I think he likes it, too. He quickly asks the same follow-up question I did. “So, living the dream? Is this what little Elise wanted to do when she grew up?”

I shake my head, letting the ‘little’ comment slide. I’m all grown up, buddy, and you damn well know it. “No, not really. I like investigative reporting, but I wish I could do something more . . .”

Unexpectedly, I stumble for words, searching for something big enough to explain my heart while Keith looks on, interested. “Go on.”

“Just, I want something more impactful,” I admit. “Fight for the little guy, expose the bad guys, that kind of thing. But that’s a hard gig to come by, so I’m working my way up. If I was in your story, I guess I’m still in the dive bars in Boise but working on that big move to better things, chasing the dream.”

He hums, seemingly thinking about what I’ve said. I want to keep the ball rolling, to capitalize on the bit of sympathy I seem to be getting from him, so I decide to address the elephant in the room, the main reason I’m here.

“So, your professional life is golden, all you could’ve dreamed of. What about your personal life, Keith? What’s happening on the dating front? Who are you buying maxis for? Who’s the milk for, Keith?” I ask with a conspiratorial tone.

He growls, literally growls at me like an animal. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard, and on some primitive level, I’m scared and know I should run for cover from the apex predator with his sights on me. But on a deeper, instinctive level, my blood just started singing through my body, pulsing at a focal point behind my clit.

Holy shit. Maybe it’s a little caveman-ish, but it’s fucking sexy as hell too. Unconsciously, I squeeze my crossed legs tighter, needing some pressure for relief. But he notices. I expect him to start yelling, but instead he just smirks and leans forward again.

His voice is quiet, gravel as he answers, seemingly puzzled by me. “You’re forward, aren’t you? No finesse or foreplay. Just jumping into the question you know is most likely to set me off. No, I’m not dating anyone, nor am I looking to. Maybe the supplies were just so I can be a gracious host. Need a tampon, Elise?”

I can’t help but defend myself a bit. He’s somehow getting to me despite my best attempts to get under his skin. The score is definitely in his favor right now. Needing to get back in the battle for control, I fume. “No, fuck you very much. It’s the reason this all started, that speculation, so why not address it from the start? Besides, foreplay is for people who don’t know what they want, who need to warm up to the idea. I get the feeling that neither of us is like that. I know what I want . . . your secrets. And you know what you want . . . to not tell me. I’m not going to trick them out of you. Just bold honesty.”

He tilts his head, searching my face for something. “Okay. But there’s one thing you’re wrong about.”

I raise an eyebrow in question. “What’s that?”

Keith smiles, but it’s a predatory full baring of his teeth, more threatening and conquering than humorous. “Foreplay isn’t for people who need a warm-up. Foreplay can be the best part if it’s done right.”

He pauses, and I know I’m breathing faster than I should be, considering I’m just sitting on a couch talking, but damn, can he talk. Every word is measured for effect, and I feel more bare than if I’d even answered a question.

The answer is written all over my face, my body. “And are you good at foreplay?”

Keith nods, his smile changing slightly, becoming as seductive as it is confrontational. “Bold honesty, huh? Very. Okay, Elise . . . tell me about your dating life.”

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

I want to be bratty back, call him on his bossiness, but I realize that would be counter to my mission here, so I give in and willingly share. “No, I’m not dating either. I work too damn much, and my last boyfriend was an ass. I’m not hung up on him or anything. It’s been months ago and was casual at best, more like fuck buddies than a real relationship. But I’m just . . . no, not dating.”

He grins, a real one this time. “Point proven. Fuck buddies don’t need foreplay. Just get in, get off, and get out. You’re just not used to getting more. So much more that it becomes a necessity, an integral piece of the bigger action, not something to be rushed through or skipped.” Every word he says is seduction, meant to make me squirm for him and I’m fighting the urge, forcing myself to be still.

I bite my lip, considering his words, my body screaming that it wants more, too. “Well, you may be right. But tell me, Keith. For someone who’s not dating anyone, you sure do have some insight into the inner workings of the human mind and body. How’d you get so . . . smart?”

I stumble at the last second because I almost said sexy, and I’ll be damned if I’m giving him that kind of ammunition, but he seems to know that ‘smart’ wasn’t my first word choice judging by his cocked eyebrow. “I said I’m not dating. Never said I was a saint.”

Before I can ask a follow-up question, the doorbell rings and Keith rises from his seat to go answer it. I can’t help but watch him as he moves with graceful power toward the hallway, returning a moment later leading a guy wearing black pants and a white chef jacket toward what I can only assume is the kitchen. I follow, drawn by both professional and personal curiosity.

As the cook tells Keith about the menu and warming times, I hang in the doorway, taking in Keith’s no-muss appearance. His jeans have ridden down low on his lean hips, showing the waistband of his underwear as he reaches up and his shirt hem raises with his arms.

Wondering if he’s a boxer brief kind of guy, I let my eyes dip down to his crotch and see a nice bulge that makes me picture him dropping those pants and taking his cock out for me. As my eyes drift back up, I see that his arms are crossed over his chest, showing off biceps that strain against the white cotton of his shirt and make his shirt ride up to expose a tiny sliver of his stomach. I have to admit to myself that want to run my hands over his abs, feel and caress each ridge.

When the cook takes his leave, Keith turns to meet my eyes. “Hungry?”

There’s an undertone to his voice, an awareness of the fact that I was just checking him out. But I see a gleam in his eyes. He’s checking me out too, which just increases my desire. Before I can tell myself not to say it, I answer him honestly. “Starving.”

There’s a rumble in his chest, but he seems to remember his game plan before I remember mine, still lost in some fantasy of him bending me over the kitchen counter and licking his dessert out of my soaking wet pussy. He opens a cabinet door, grabbing plates, then glasses and silverware. “Follow me.”

After serving up healthy portions onto the plates and a quick warming in the microwave, we sit at the table in the kitchen nook. There’s tension between us now, but it’s not awkward. If anything, it feels good, flavored with the little intimate touches like using a microwave. It’s like Keith’s saying I know you find me sexy. I don’t need to bend over backward to impress you more than I do naturally.

It’s natural and heady, like I’m a stick of dynamite and he’s waving a lit match around, and I’m dangerously close to begging him to light me up because everything in me says that he damn sure could.

I try to get my head back in the game, reminding myself that no matter how fucking sexy Keith may be or how horny I am, that’s not happening. I’m a reporter, and my name isn’t Francesca, goddammit!

I need to be professional, get him to answer some fresh questions, dig a little deeper into who he is. Discovering his secrets, writing a great article series . . . that’s the goal here. Not getting my pussy licked before getting a creamy ending to my fantasies.

Keith seems to read all of my dirty, naughty thoughts, but he chooses to let me simmer in my need and goes over to the fridge. “Wine?”

I nod, curious that he didn’t offer me a beer. “Just a half glass. Still on the clock, you know.”

I wish I hadn’t said it the moment it leaves my mouth. It’s a reminder that regardless of any flirting we might have been doing, and how fucking hot Keith makes me, being here is my job. My job to tell all the things he’d rather keep private.

It’s like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on our whole interaction, and I can see it in the sudden increased tension across Keith’s jawline.

Dinner and the rest of our evening proceed with conversational questions and answers, but not nearly as personal and telling as our earlier talk. There’s none of the burning taunting now, just a polite aloofness.

It feels colder, robotic even as he answers in what amounts to one word, sometimes one-syllable answers. And though I could write a whole book about how hot Keith is in person, how commanding his presence is, I’m not sure that’s exactly where this all-access story needs to go.

That fact feels like . . . my secret.

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