“Mr. Davis, how are you feeling? You out celebrating?” Dean asks when he answers the phone.

“It’s only three o’clock. I’m saving that for later. Any progress on my beard?”

“You know, you’re the only client I’ve ever had who needs a beard to avoid having to date anyone at all. Most beards—”

“I know. Thanks for humoring me.” He’s said this about a thousand times.

“Okay, okay. I think it would be helpful for you to be in a stable relationship if we’re going to go after the big money endorsements. This shoe deal is an exception because the people who buy them don’t care whether or not you’re fucking everyone in town. They care if you’re the best in the sport. But if we want to go bigger, then yes, I think you need a girlfriend. I just want to say one more time that I think you’d be better off dating someone for real than this. It’s not a permanent solution, and when you eventually break up, no matter how amicable the breakup is, there will be fans who take sides. That means negative reporting, digging into your relationships. Your friends will have to buy into it. Your mother, too. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” is all I say.

“Okay, well then, I’ve got someone. She’s agreed to all of our terms and is willing to move in if necessary. I’m e-mailing over her details including her picture and bio. She’s cute. Look it over and then let me know if you’re good with me revealing your identity.”

“She won’t need to move in. I don’t care if she’s cute. What’s her name?”

“Uhhh … hold on.” I hear his keys clacking.

“Wow, not memorable enough for you to even remember her name?” I ask him dryly.

“Do you know how many women answered the agency’s callout? I’ve spent the last three days talking to the eighty women they sent over. I did it myself, Graham. Listened to them tell me why they were willing to agree to be a beard for someone they didn’t know. This chick was the only one who had a reason that wasn’t money.”

“What was that?”

“She needs a beard, too. And when I asked her what her favorite show was, she said yours. Figured that at least there would be no chance of her falling in love with you or being disappointed in who you were.”

“As if anyone would be disappointed when they found out who I am,” I joke, relief loosening some of the anxiety and doubt I had over this plan.

“Listen, I have to take this call. I’ve sent over her file. Take a look at it and then let me know. If you’re good, we’ll start with her and then get the other three lined up.”

“Cool, tell Milly I said hi.” He laughs but doesn’t even try to deny it.

“I’m not telling her you said anything. Every time I mention your name, she spends ten minutes talking about your hair and eyes.”

“Bye, Dean,” I say with a laugh.

“Congrats, speak soon.”

And then he disconnects.

I lean back in my chair and think about this plan of mine. It feels extreme, but it’s just so I can avoid the questions about my relationship status that I get asked every single time I’m out. I want to get my friends off my case. And I want to focus on building my business.

I’m sick of Los Angeles.

I should be happy right now, on the day where with the stroke of my pen, I made more money than I made in the three years I worked for Nanette.

I’ve gone from personal trainer to the stars to television star, model, and spokesperson.

I can afford to go on vacation with my friends and pay for my mother’s care.

I have a Tesla in my driveway, a Range Rover in my garage. I live in this ten thousand square foot house with an elevator, tennis court, swimming pool, screening room, and rock climbing wall.

But it doesn’t feel like enough. This time I know exactly what’s missing.

After my conversation with Isabel, I went off the rails. Reece and Omar were both back in LA for good. Dave was around at least once a month, and they were experts at finding random hookups.

The first time I brought someone home was a disaster. It turns out that casual sex felt just as awful to me as transactional sex. Well, actually, a little worse. Women, when they’re not just using you like a discreet way to get off expect more than a mind-bending orgasm. They want you to kiss them, put your mouth on their bodies. Look at them while you fuck.

I understood. I just couldn’t do it. One of my attempted hookups left my hotel room screaming obscenities and threatening to tell everyone I was a “limp dicked asshole.” A few days later, my publicist, Jenn, made a deal to kill and bury a story all about my impotence and deception.

I didn’t care, honestly. I thought maybe it would mean I could stop pretending to be the playboy everyone thought I was.

But Dean reminded me that the audience who watched my show tuned in because they wanted to fantasize about me. Living an outwardly celibate existence wasn’t an option.

What I really needed was to focus on getting over Apollo. And I didn’t want to continue my revolving door of disappointed potential fuck buddies.

I thought a beard would be the perfect solution. Lots of people have them. It was an open secret. When I broached Dean about it, he told me he’d made arrangements for other clients before, but thought they were a bad long-term solution. Beards get tired of the pretense faster than the person they’re covering for. I just hoped mine would prove to be the exception.

I opened the e-mail, glanced at the picture, and laughed. It was Amber, the little gossip reporter who interviewed me last year. What in the world did she need a beard for? I couldn’t wait to find out. I e-mailed Dean back to tell him I was ready.

I stand up when I see Amber sauntering to the table. It’s our first “date,” and we decided to kick things off as publicly as possible. We decided to tell everyone we met when she interviewed me last year. If I didn’t have a brain that seemed to do nothing but think of one of the only women in the world who wasn’t in love with me, and a cock that did whatever my brain told it to, I would have been into her. She’s gorgeous. Like in a way that doesn’t need the pounds of makeup she was wearing when she interviewed me. Her cinnamon skin glows, and her trademark braids are caught in a huge bun on top of her head. She’s wearing a pair of tiny shorts, paired with a pink silk sleeveless top that stops right above her belly button in the front but appears to have some sort of train in the back. And she’s also a lot shorter than she was when I met her last time. I look at her feet and see she’s wearing silver flip-flops instead of heels.

I like her right away.

“Hey,” she says in that cheerful, even toned voice that made her a hit on radio before she shoots me the smile that made her a success on television.

“Hey, nice to see you,” I say and press a light kiss to her cheek and then reach around to pull out her seat.

“Thank you,” she says with a wink before she sits down.

She rests her forearms on the table and then leans forward, and with a twinkle in her eye says, “Good job,” in a hushed voice.

“Thanks. Want to make sure we look legit,” I say.

“Yeah, me too. Even though when I found out it was you, I thought it had to be a joke.”

“It’s no joke, I assure you.”

“Oh, I know. As soon as I heard who your agent was, I knew. He doesn’t play games or waste time. So yeah, I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“About what?”

“Why the fuck Graham Fucking Davis needs a beard? I mean, you have a fucking PussyPhone. Was all of that a cover?”

“Ugh, I regret ever saying that. Not one of my finer moments.” I hang my head at that. Mama fussed at me for days after that.

She crosses her arms over her chest, wiggles her shoulders, and leans back in her seat. “Well, come on. Spill.”

“Would you like me to get you some popcorn? You look like you’re about to watch a movie or something.”

“Oh, I have a feeling this is going to be better than any movie could ever be.”

My bark of surprised laughter draws eyes in our direction.

“Oh yeah, that’s great. They’ll have us married off in no time,” she says excitedly. I shake my head in amusement. Yeah, I like her.

“So, tell me, Amber, why do you, Ms. E Television herself, need a beard?”

She sighs and adjusts herself in her seat. She looks me straight in the eyes. “Because I’ve got a kid. And the studio told me I needed a relationship to keep my contract. I need my contract to feed my kid. But I’m not putting up with any asshole ever again. So, I decided to find a beard.” She shrugs like it’s the simplest thing.

“You have a kid?”

“Yes. Zion. He’s 8.” She must see my eyes widen. “Yes, I had him when I was only sixteen—young and stupid—thought I was in love. Spoiler alert, I wasn’t.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it’s okay because he gave me the brightest little boy in the world. He lives with my mother back home in Baton Rouge. That’s where I grew up.”

“What brought you to LA?”

“I wasn’t good for much but fucking and talking. So, I came to the one place where those things can actually make you money. And I got really lucky because I fucked a guy who was able to help me make money talking. I would have liked to fuck him forever, but he didn’t seem to want more than the couple of nights we shared.” She sighs and takes a sip of her water.

“You talk a lot,” I tell her.

“Thank you Captain Obvious,” she deadpans.

I laugh. “I think this might actually work out,” I say.

“I hope so. ‘Cause right now, I’m sick of men. If I have to spend time with one, I need to be with one who doesn’t want or need to fuck me.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You better not want to fuck me.”

“I don’t,” I say quickly.

“Well, jeez, take it easy on a girl’s ego,” she says with mock affront.

I laugh. “You’re funny. And it’s not you. It’s me. I love one woman. I always have. I can’t be with anyone else. I’ve tried. Failed. I also need a relationship for contract reasons, so … here I am.”

“So, you’re not gay?” she asks in shock.

“Who told you I was?”

“No one. I just assumed. The men who need beards usually are. Well, I’m sorry someone broke your heart, dick, and brain. And it sounds like you’ll probably never get over her. But we can have fun anyway.”

“Thanks. I feel better now.” I laugh again, and it feels good.

“I’m here to please.” She picks up her glass and holds it up and nods at mine.

I obey.

“Here’s to hiding from love until we’re brave enough to fucking fight for it. And to helping each other get brave enough.”

“Or how about, to not having a broken dick, heart, and brain?”

“You have to want more for your life than that,” she says.

“I used to,” I say honestly.

“Well, I’ve told you my story, you need to tell me yours.”

“Um, I don’t know. I haven’t told anyone …”

“We’re going to have to trust each other. And I hope to fuck we can be friends because if you’re an asshole, I think this is going to be the longest year of our lives.”

“Fine. Where do you want me to start?”

“Oh. If you’re letting me decide, then I want you to start from the very beginning. Tell me who you are, Graham S. Davis,” she says, her smile falling away. “I really want to know.”

So, I start from the very beginning, and I tell her everything.

Except for the one thing I hope I never have to tell anyone.