The F List: A celebrity romance

by Alessandra Torre

  I caught her as she was wading in, already hip-deep, her arms crossed over her chest as she gingerly moved into the water and holy shit—it was cold. I cursed as the ice hit the most sensitive part of my body and instinctively moved closer to her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  "You wanted to be away from the cameras, right?" She eased deeper, and when she turned I got a glimpse of one of the most perfect breasts in the entire world. "So, this is how we do it."

  "We probably could have just outrun him," I said gruffly, and why on hell was I arguing with this idea? Screw the cold. I was in reach of Emma, and she was practically naked, and we were swallowed by the dark, away from the others, all on our own. If we didn't get eaten by a shark, this was the best idea I'd ever heard.

  "It's better once you're underwater." She hissed out a breath as she sank further in, and I struggled to keep up with her. She was right. My waist had either gone numb or gotten accustomed to the temperature, and after that experience, my chest was a piece of cake.

  “Don’t look at my boobs.” She swiveled to face me, and it was a physical impossibility not to look down. I struggled with it, fixating my gaze on the center of her forehead, but it slipped for just a moment and Jesus. If I died tonight, I’d die happy. I forced myself to meet her eyes and reminded myself that I was Cash Mitchell. I’d seen thousands of naked women. Touched hundreds of breasts. These, even if they did belong to Emma Blanton, were not insurmountable.

  “You’re looking at them,” she accused, and a wave screwed me over by lapping away from her and exposing more.

  “Come here.” I captured her hand under the water and tugged, wanting to bring her into my chest. “You’re shivering.”

  She tugged her hand back and flicked some water at me. “I’m fine. Tell me about your mom.”

  I glanced at the shoreline, where I could see a huddled group of the crew. One dark figure—probably Dana—stomped back and forth at the surf, gesturing toward us.

  “There’s not much to say. She’s a diva. Wasn’t exactly the most nurturing mom.” I ran my wet hand through my hair.

  “Okay, so? Some moms are selfish, my own included. I mean, you’ve read the interviews, right?”

  Yeah, I'd read the interviews. Her parents shared everything about Emma to one of the gossip rags, presumably for a chunk of money. They didn't hold back, but you could read between the lines. Every time they called her ungrateful, my dislike of them had doubled. "Yeah." I coughed and watched as she started to tread water. Reaching out with my leg, I hooked one of hers and brought her closer. "I'm not saying that you had it easy, but my mom isn't what she played on the show. She's an actress. People forget that."

  "Okay, so then tell me what she's really like." She rested her hands on my shoulders, and it was probably just to stay afloat, but I still liked her hands there, leaning on me, depending on me.

  I shouldn't tell her anything. This was a woman who sold out our first date to the tabloids, then manufactured press items around our movie awards fight, then posed naked for a milk ad just for shock value. Telling her things that I'd never said to anyone… things that any tabloid would pay millions of dollars for… it was insane. I wasn't that stupid, but then she wrapped her legs around my waist and tightened her grip on my shoulders. The lace of her underwear rubbed against the top of my pelvis, and the tips of her nipples brushed against my pecs as I stood still and let the waves push her up and down my body. I lost all reasonable thought processes then. I lost everything but the scent of her, the feel of her, the look in her eyes as she stared into mine.

  “She’s a monster,” I said. “She’s terrible. To me. To my brother.”

  "Terrible, how?"

  I closed my hands around her ass and pulled her against me, my erection awakening despite the chill. I could talk for an hour about everything my mother was, but I didn’t want her right here, right now. I wanted to kiss Emma. I wanted her hands rough in my hair and her gasp against my lips. “Kiss me.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Talk to me about your mom.”

  “Is that what it takes to get a kiss?” I scowled. “You kissed Layton without an inquisition.”

  She tried to pull away. “Yeah, for episode five. What’s your point?”

  "And what is this? Episode 6? Emma seduces Cash on the beach?" I let go of her, and she pushed away, her face almost lost in the darkness.

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  “Don’t be a tease,” I shot back. “What are you even doing out here with me?”

  “I’m trying to get to know you,” she spat out across the water. “You say stuff, and when you get called on it, you deflect. Stop saying you're normal. You're not normal. You don't get to lump yourself in with everyone else. You are on a tv show. You have eighty million followers. You have Jockey as a sponsor, and it isn't because of your sparkling personality, Cash. It's because of your last name, your zip code, and the press that has been following you around since before you could talk."

  It was all true. I swam closer to her and lowered my voice, hoping it wouldn't carry. "That press protected me. That's what you don't understand. You think I ran out to the paparazzi when I was five because I wanted my picture taken?" I could see her now, the damp cling of her hair, the droplets of water against her lips. "I ran to them because I saw them as protection. Around them, my mom was all smiles and laughter.” I swallowed. “In front of them, she hugged me instead of hurting me.”

  She looked at me warily, and I swore to God, if she called me a liar, I’d swim for shore and leave her out here to catch pneumonia and die.

  “And what about your brother?”

  That wasn't the reaction or the question I had expected. I glanced toward the shore, then back to her. "What about him?"

  “Was she bad with him?”

  There was a reason that Wesley was at the Ranch instead of in that mansion. There was a reason that I dove into this business before I was out of high school. And both of those reasons pointed to my mom.

  “No,” I said carefully. “She wasn’t bad.” The one time my mother laid a hand on Wes, I threw her across the room, and she broke her arm. We suffered for three months on solitary confinement in a house of horrors while we hid her cast from the press. “She is…” I tried to find the right words to describe the unemotional robot my mother turned into when she interacted with Wes. “She avoids him. Is ashamed of him. He craves attention and affection, and she refuses to give him that. Almost enjoys punishing him by withholding it.”

  “I’m sorry I said those things, on our date, about him.” Her leg bumped against mine, and I was torn between giving her space and having her back in my arms.

  I stayed in place, still able to touch, my height giving me a stability advantage over her. “You said what everyone thinks. It’s why it pissed me off.”

  “Have you thought about him living with you?”

  I didn't want to talk about Wesley. I knew all about Wesley. I wanted to talk about her. I didn't know anything about her or why she was doing this show, why she was even in this life.

  “I mean, I’m sure he likes the Ranch, I just figured he’d be happiest with you.”

  “My life is too chaotic. My friends are mostly assholes. And he hates the flash of cameras. It triggers him.”

  “If they’re assholes, why are you friends with them?”

  Great question. Emma was the first to ever ask me it. I didn’t have a logical answer. I was friends with them because they were all I knew. Everyone was screwed up in Hollywood, so you picked the best of the worst and stuck with them.

  She shivered and I was willing to risk another swollen jaw to put my arms around her. Warm her up. Hold her. Kiss her. And I could do it out here, away from the cameras, without the scripts.

  “Come here.” I pulled on her arm, bringing her closer.

  She laughed. “What? Why?”

  “I want to kiss you.”

  She let me bring her forward, then sank a little in the water
as she tried to find footing and failed. I lifted her.

  “Put your legs back around me.”

  She did, but there was a hesitation, a wariness that seeped through her beautiful features. I studied her face and tried to understand where it was coming from. "What? You don’t want to kiss me?”

  “It was complete bullshit. We couldn’t hear or see from the beach, and I was cursing my decision to shoot at the beach. The cameras couldn't go into the ocean, and the assistants were acting as if they were too good to wade in up to their chins and hold up a mic. We wasted ten minutes, sitting there like useless idiots, while someone fetched a dingy. We didn’t know what was going on out there in the water. They coulda come back pregnant or chewed apart by sharks.”

  Dana Diench, Producer, House of Fame

  63

  #shutupandkissme

  EMMA

  Did I want to kiss him? Of course, I did. My head pounded with the need. Every fantasy I’d had for the last five years involved kissing me. And now, here, he wanted to kiss me.

  I needed it, but my heart was still stuttering over what he had just said about his mom. I couldn’t understand how anyone could avoid Wesley—or punish him by withholding affection. What had it been like for Cash, growing up with a mother like that? The knowledge redefined every assumption I’d ever had about his life and upbringing. It made me respect him, and I felt a sudden and fierce gratefulness for everything he must have done to protect and care for Wesley.

  I tightened my legs around him and let them hold me up, freeing my hands to explore his face. I ran a tentative hand through his hair and watched as his eyes closed, then reopened. He gripped my butt, one cheek in each hand, and thank God I’d wore sexy underwear. I traced my fingers over his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw. Those lips. He watched me, those dark blue eyes almost glowing. I avoided meeting them, putting my focus on the small scar on his nose, the light shadow of facial hair along his jaw, the strong cleft of his cheekbones. He was heartbreakingly perfect. Masculine—yet, in those eyes, a hint of vulnerability.

  It should have made me bolder, but it only caused my panic to rise. "I—"

  I was going to say that I didn't know what to do with him, but then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine. Softly, like he was creaking open a door, unsure if anyone was home. My lips parted, and I inhaled, then pressed back, a sweet and salty connection that deepened as his tongue met mine. One of his hands tightened on my ass as the other journeyed up my back, crushing me to him as our kiss grew more frantic and needy. I lost my hesitation and scraped my hands through his hair, fisting the short strands as our mouths battled against each other. Soft then hard. Deep then shallow. He cupped my face and kissed the side of my mouth, my jaw, my neck. He bruised my skin with his tongue as I clawed at his back. His hand found my breast, and I gasped as his touch turned gentle, his mouth softening, finding mine again as he caressed me.

  I pulled back, my legs coming loose of his torso, and I put the soles of my feet against his chest and pushed, propelling me away from him.

  He let me go, and I treaded in place, catching my breath as my body hummed with the insane need to get back into his arms. I had thought for a long time about kissing him, and it was better than I had ever dreamed. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have everything. Fame, followers, and sex appeal, plus chemistry and a mouth like that? How was a woman supposed to co-exist with that? How was I supposed to live in a house one hallway down from that and function as a member of society?

  I should get back to the house. This wasn't part of the script, wasn't on the episode list. I was supposed to be making out with Layton next to the bonfire, then starting an argument with Eileen about her parents versus my parents. It was all there, cut into ten-minute segments and printed on 8.5 by 11 paper and distributed to all of the cast members and crew.

  An engine rumbled from somewhere, and I glanced at the shore.

  “Hey.” He splashed water in my direction. “Come here.”

  I ignored him, ducking under the water to wet my hair and shock myself back into reality. I was Emma Blanton. Cool and witty Emma Blanton. Practically famous. Worthy of the click-to-follow action of forty-two million people.

  I could do anything. Swim back over to him and kiss him again. Laugh at his seduction abilities and make a cruel joke. Play the aloof friend card and pretend that none of what just happened mattered, and I kiss hot boys in cold oceans all the time. I bobbed in the water and watched as a spotlight traveled across the water and flickered over us. “I’m a virgin.”

  I couldn't see his face in the dark, and I was grateful for that. I didn't want to know what he was thinking or how that reaction played out on his features. I swam one stroke toward the shore, making sure to keep my distance from him. "I just thought you should know. In case you thought something was going to happen between us."

  “Something already has happened between us.”

  He had no tone when he said it, the words not giving me any hint as to what he was thinking, but that had been a major confession for me. Bojan didn’t even know about my virginal status, though he had called me a prude on several occasions. I swam further toward shore and heard the splash of water as he followed. “Emma, wait.”

  I ducked underwater and breast-stroked, wanting to hide my position, but his hand closed around my ankle, and I was pulled back and suddenly back in his arms.

  "Are you fucking with me?" Water dripped from his eyebrow, and a wet lock of hair fell over his forehead, and I couldn't believe that I was in his arms, practically naked against his chest, and he was staring at me as if he cared.

  “No.” I pretended to struggle, but I wasn’t ready for him to let go, to leave me alone in the water. “I’m serious.”

  “But you’re…what? Twenty-three?”

  “Twenty-four.” I shrugged. “I haven’t dated much. I’ve been busy.”

  “You and Bojan never…”

  I grimaced. "Ew. You seriously believe that?" The press often has conspiracy theories about Bojan and my secret sex life, which involves a lot of orgies and drugs. I’d disputed the charges, but no one believed me, which was fine because bad press was just as strong, or more so, than good press. "We're friends. Just friends."

  "Wow. Emma Blanton's a virgin. How did that never hit the sites?"

  “I don’t talk about it. My people don’t know.” I hadn’t ever shared the information with Vidal or Michelle, and no one had ever asked because no one’s a virgin anymore. Plus, people don’t really like virgins. Hell, Tim Tebow barely pulled it off, and he had Jesus on his side.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  "No problem." The hum grew louder, and the moonlight reflected off some sort of a vessel, coming from the direction of the beach. I pushed harder against Cash, freeing myself from him. "They're coming for us."

  “Meet me tonight. Somewhere away from the cameras.”

  I watched as the spotlight from the boat grew closer. Someone perched at the front of it, a filming rig up on their shoulder.

  “Emma,” he said.

  I ignored him because there wasn't anywhere away from the cameras, not in that house. Not unless you were going to the bathroom or taking a shower, and I wasn't entirely sure that those were safe places either.

  “Come to my room,” he tried.

  I shook my head, and it was stupid of me to do that last time. We had been lucky, impossibly so, that no one had found out about that.

  The boat slowed beside us, and an extra big wave lapped toward me, splashing my face. I turned my head and sputtered as saltwater went into my mouth.

  "Screw you both," Dana crowed from her place in the front. "I swear to God, if you said or did anything interesting out here, I'm going to drown you both right now."

  “Take it easy,” Cash said. “No one did anything interesting.”

  Dana peered over the side of the boat at me. “You’re topless? Felipe, get this on camera.”

  I shot Felipe a dirty look and sa
nk further into the water. Cash moved between me and the boat, blocking their view.

  “Fine,” Dana muttered. “Go on. Continue whatever conversation you were having. Remember, I own you—both of you—for the next few weeks, so this is being recorded.”

  “We’re going back in,” I announced, swimming sideways toward the shore. “Okay?”

  “Yes, Emma,” Dana intoned, “that is okay. Because Layton—remember him? He’s supposed to be feeling you up right about now.”

  If I didn't already feel like a hooker, I did now. Cash moved forward, easily swimming beside me. His arms pinwheeled through the water, propelling him past me, and I struggled to catch up. Beside us, the dingy chugged along, the propellers loud underneath the water.

  It took less time to get back than it did to go out, and I was soon walking out of the water, my hands crossed over my chest, my teeth beginning to chatter from the chill.

  “Here.” Cash took a towel from a crew member and wrapped it around me, then rubbed the sides of my arms, warming me. He took a second towel and worked it over each leg with a quick efficiency utterly devoid of tenderness but highly effective in warming me up.

  “Thanks. You’re good at that.”

  He grinned at me. “You’re a lot less wiggly than my dogs. They always try to steal the towel from me.”

  “You have dogs?”

  “Yep. Three girls. I like the ladies.” Another smile.

  “You don’t post any pictures or videos of them.” It was socially stupid. People loved pets. Dog pictures helped hit the feeder markets that were slow to warm to social influencers. It’s why Nick Bateman’s followers jumped twelve percent after he got that ridiculously cute purse dog. I could just imagine Cash shirtless, wrestling around with them on a brilliantly green patch of lawn.