Celebrity Playboy: All American Boy Series

by Readnour, Kimberly

  “This is really good, Mrs. Greer,” Westlyn says, much to my aunt’s delight.

  “Thank you, dear. Oh, where’re my manners? Would you like a little sparkling orange juice to go along with it?”

  “I’ll take some orange juice with a little less sparkle.” He winks.

  “O-oh my, yes. Let me get that.” My aunt stammers on her words, looks away, and blushes. She actually blushes. It seems I’m not the only one enamored by Mr. Hollywood’s charm. Before I can call her out on it, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.

  Tate: When were you going to tell me you were with RIVER DANES?

  My gaze meets Westlyn’s.

  “Your location is out.”

  “That didn’t take long.” Westlyn’s voice is flat.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t think it’s up to me.”

  “But it is,” I insist. “I’ve ignored him all of this time. I can keep doing that.”

  “Then, what? He drags your name even more?”

  Shit. He did overhear our conversation. All of it, it seems. I swallow hard and nod. “More than likely, yeah.”

  “Call him back.”

  “But—”

  “No, call him back and see what his endgame is. I’d rather keep your name out of the tabloids if at all possible.”

  “He has a good point,” my uncle says.

  I agree because he’s right. If anyone knows how grueling it is for people to be dragged through the tabloids, it’s me. The more embellished the story is, the better it sells. “I can do that.”

  I hit the number I never wanted to dial again as long as I lived.

  “Do you care to explain why a picture of you dining with River Danes ended up in my email?”

  “Hello to you, too.”

  “Cut the crap and explain.”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation at all.” How I stayed with that man for five years is beyond me. I want to call him out on him blacklisting me, but that will only deter from Westlyn. Right now, I need to control the narrative. Westlyn’s reputation is more important than mine at the moment. “But what do you want to know?”

  “Everything.” He lets out an exasperated laugh. “Look, I’m sorry for how things went down. But baby, if you get me an exclusive, I’ll let you come back.”

  “As if I’d ever come back to you.”

  “I don’t mean us. I meant Hot Gossip. The senior editing position is all yours. Just get me the exclusive by tomorrow morning.”

  The click and the ensuing silence tell me everything I need to know—it’s officially over between us—and I feel…nothing. Five years. We spent five years together. There should be some type of remorse, regret, or outrage. Something. Was our relationship more about convenience? I thought what we had was love, but the only thing I’m mad about is him slandering my name. If I had the strength, I’d take my uncle up on his offer and sue for defamation. I look at Westlyn sitting there, trying to seem nonchalant, and I can’t find the strength to care about Tate. What Tate and I shared wasn’t love. That’s never been more apparent to me than now.

  “What did he say?” Westlyn asks.

  “He offered me the senior editing position if I get him the exclusive by tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” my clueless aunt says.

  “Mmhmm,” I mumble, devoid of emotion. My gaze locks with Westlyn’s.

  “I think you should do it,” he says.

  My eyebrows knit in confusion. He cannot be serious. “What? No! That’s ludicrous.”

  “No, it’s not. Think about it. By giving him an exclusive, it will keep you in a city that you love.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “What will it hurt? I’m Teflon. Nothing sticks, right?”

  I smirk at his reference, but my cheeks warm at the thought of what followed after that statement.

  “Besides, nothing changes for me regardless of which story they run. But for you…this gives you a choice to decide if you’d rather stay or leave.”

  The realization hits that the expiration date on our relationship is pending. Maybe a relationship is too strong of a word. It’s more like a friendship. A friends-with-benefits sort of thing. Call it whatever you like, but the truth remains, it’s about to end. And I don’t like it. Not at all.

  “Fine, if that’s what you want me to do. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll meet you in your room.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” my uncle says. He stands and slaps a hand on Westlyn’s shoulder. “Now that Loni has romanticized you to the finer parts of the winery, it’s time for you to earn your keep.”

  “Denny, you wouldn’t,” Aunt Lynette says. I groan, knowing where this is heading.

  Westlyn looks at me wearily. “What’s going on?”

  “Harvest time, my boy. All hands on deck. We meet at the merlot vines at six a.m. tomorrow.”

  “What exactly does that entail?” Humor coats Westlyn’s eyes as a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

  “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,” I say.

  “If it’s anything like the rest of the activities around here, sign me up.” Westlyn directs that statement straight to me. My face flames and I hope my aunt and uncle aren’t watching our exchange.

  “Then, you’re in for a treat.” I stand. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll meet you in your room in about an hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure about doing this?” I place the pad and pen down on Westlyn’s bed. He sits across from me, seemingly oblivious to the distance in his stare. It’s rather obvious he’s uncomfortable.

  “If it helps you, then yes. Besides, if we control the narrative, then we won’t look so bad.”

  “Maybe.” This entire scenario doesn’t sit well. I know how magazines spin things, and Tate would have no problem spinning the truth. He’d probably sic Carla on it. She has a craving for stretching the truth to fit her agenda.

  “You do want to move back to L.A., right?”

  “I thought so.”

  His question makes me look away. I can’t tell him the truth that I no longer want to leave this land. That knowledge does no one any good. It’s not like I have the option to stay.

  I turn to face him again. “Why do you care what happens to me? It’s not like we’re lifelong friends. Hell, we’ve only known each other for a week.”

  “But it’s the best week I’ve had in a very long time.” His look is so intense. So believable. I want to believe him, even though I shouldn’t.

  “Me too.”

  “I don’t think there’s a time requirement for friendship—not when people have this kind of chemistry between them. I like you. We’re having fun. If I want to help you out, then I will.”

  I nod and puff out a breath. “Okay then, what do you want the world to know?”

  He laughs. “That’s a bit broad, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I want you to lead the narrative.”

  He intertwines our fingers. “I’m not overly complex. I don’t trust many people, which you already know.”

  “Do you still trust me?” Since he connected the article to me, I hope I haven’t damaged that trust too badly.

  “Yes, I do. That’s why I insisted on this interview. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

  I leap forward, surprising Westlyn and myself as my lips land on his. He slides his hands along my sides as he returns the kiss.

  He falls back on the mattress, taking me with him, his mouth curving into a smile. “Do you give all of your interviewees this special treatment?”

  “Only the ones I like.”

  “You like me, huh?”

  “I think that’s been established.”

  “Shouldn’t we start the interview?” he asks.

  “Screw the interview. I have everything I need right here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His lips are back on mine, and we spend the rest of the day in his room, exploring
each other.

  Best interview ever.

  The ping from my phone wakes me, and I suppress a groan when I read Tate’s text.

  Tate: Where’s my story?

  I steal away from Westlyn’s bed, pad across the floor, and head straight to the kitchen. I don’t want to risk waking up Westlyn, but I need to shut down this level of control Tate thinks he has over me. I’ve avoided this argument for far too long. My heart races as I take a deep breath and dial Tate’s number.

  “You better be calling with that exclusive.” His voice, demanding and authoritative, booms loud in my ear and sets me off.

  “Or what? You’re going to blacklist me? Pretty sure you already did.”

  Tate scoffs. “It doesn’t matter what the other companies think. The senior editing position is yours.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, summoning courage. It would be a dream to have that job at age twenty-nine, but I wouldn’t have earned it, unlike the last promotion. “Tate, I don’t want to argue. What’s done is done, but there won’t be an exclusive.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Really? You have to ask?”

  “I’m offering a senior-level position. Why would you turn it down? It’s the raise you desperately need.”

  I bristle. He doesn’t know about my current situation. Does he?

  “After the way you treated me, there’s no way I’d ever come back. Rumors already flew around the office about me—about us. I can only imagine what they’re saying now.” Now that I know about all of his side pieces. Ugh, I can’t believe I’ve been so blind.

  “I’m the best place to work in L.A.”

  I want to laugh, but bruising his ego further won’t work. He’ll shut down. “So, you’re going to gloss over the fact you screwed your receptionists? Is that why you go through so many?”

  “This isn’t about us. This is strictly business. You need a job. You’re about to be out on your ass. You need me as much as I need this story.”

  My mouth dries, and I can barely speak. “What do you mean?”

  “Ah, that’s right, baby. I know all about the financial problems your winery is having. It didn’t take too much digging to find out. You don’t want to lose everything you’ve worked for. Give me the exclusive, and the promotion is yours.”

  I can barely breathe as his manipulative words sink in. He always hits low. I grip the phone, my eyes closing. Breathe, just breathe.

  “Listen to me closely. You can dangle the promotion all you want. I’d rather stay in a homeless shelter than work with your cheating ass. As far as the exclusive? Westlyn, er, River Danes’s story isn’t for sale. Not to you. Not to anyone. We don’t owe you an explanation.”

  “We?” He laughs. “What, you think you’re a couple now? That’s rich.”

  “No, but we’re friends. And friends don’t fuck each other over. Something you wouldn’t know. Don’t call me again.” I hang up, seething, my entire body shaking.

  “You okay?”

  I start and twirl around to face Westlyn. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

  “Hey, come here.” Concern coats his features as he spreads his arms open and closes the distance between us. “You’re shaking.”

  “He’s such an asshole. I can’t believe I stayed with him for five years.”

  “He sounds like a manipulative bastard.” Westlyn dips his head to catch my gaze. “It’s not too late to do that interview, though. I wouldn’t want you giving him the exclusive, but I’m sure any other magazine in L.A. would bend over backwards to get the story. You’d be able to stay in L.A.”

  I study Westlyn. His eyes, filled with sincerity, appear slightly darker. This man would seriously permit me to sell his story for my gain, even after we argued about that exact thing. Of course, it led to some pretty intense sex, but how the hell am I supposed to safeguard my heart against that?

  Newsflash. I can’t.

  “Like I told Tate, friends don’t fuck each other over.”

  “God, I…haven’t known anyone like you. Ever.” He leans down and captures my mouth. “You’re half right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Friends may not fuck each other over, but I know of one friend I sure like to fuck.”

  I smack his chest. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Just to be clear, you’re that friend.” He flashes me his brilliant white smile, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “I am, huh?”

  “You are. Last night comes to mind. I’m thinking about a repeat.”

  “Too bad we have work to do. I don’t want to tire you out before the big day. It’s not too late to back out.”

  “Hell, no. I’m ready.”

  “We’ll grab something to eat and then meet everyone down by the fields. I hope you’re wearing the same smile afterward.”

  “Trust me. If you’re around, I will be.”

  Always the charmer.

  * * *

  We look forward to discussing future employment options with you tomorrow.

  I close the email app on my phone as turmoil churns in my gut. I should be fist-pumping the air and shouting aloud, “Hell, yeah,” for landing an interview with a top-notch magazine in New York City, but I can’t grasp the proper enthusiasm. The footsteps approaching from behind me has a lot to do with it. Or more like the man those footsteps belong to. I let that thought settle as Westlyn slides behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.

  “This view would never get old.”

  I tip my head back and take in Westlyn’s side profile. He’s completely mesmerized as he stares at the sunrise peeking over the mountain. It’s the same peaceful look he gets whenever he looks at the countryside. He’s as beautiful as the orange and reds stretching across the sky and casting a glow on the fields.

  “Don’t you have beautiful sunrises where you live?”

  “Yeah, and watching the sunrise over the ocean is nice, but there’s something about this that makes me feel at peace.”

  I sink into his chest and take in the sight as a few more farmhands pass. They glance our way but don’t say anything as they go about their job. That’s the thing about coming here. The hired help has become more like family and never pry. They go about their business and keep mainly to themselves. If we hadn’t gone into town, no one would even know he’s here.

  “Loni, I thought you should know we ran off some paparazzi near the main warehouse.”

  Alarmed, I jerk my head toward Richard, one of our employees. “How many have you seen?”

  He sets two five-gallon buckets down and places the harvest shears inside. “About five, Miss Greer.”

  Westlyn’s body tenses as he lets out a low growl. He shoves a hand through his hair and swears. “I’m sorry. I can make a phone call and get a bodyguard here. They’ll run them off.”

  “We called the police, sir. They can stay near the storefront, but any territory beyond that point is trespassing.”

  “Thanks, Richard. We’ll stay clear of that area.”

  Westlyn waits until we’re alone before speaking. “They’re sneaky bastards. I wouldn’t be surprised if they make it near the house. With their long-range lenses—”

  “Shh, that’s a worry for later. And who cares? I don’t plan on going naked.”

  “Damn. I had big plans for later.”

  “We’ll see how much enthusiasm you have at the end of today before we break out the event scheduler. I have a feeling your plans will change.” I shove the five-gallon bucket in his hands along with the harvest shears and give him a smirk.

  “Don’t think I’m up for the challenge?”

  “When was the last time you did manual labor?” I lift an eyebrow, acting tough when I don’t have any room to talk. It’s been a while since I’ve shown my face around during the harvest. There wasn’t any way my ex would help.

  Westlyn steps closer and leans down so only I can hear. “Does last night count?”

  My face flames. Last night
certainly does count. The way his hands caressed my body as he explored every inch made me feel worshipped. My body buzzed with a need that he fulfilled multiple times. By the time we were through, I was too exhausted to sneak back to my room. I have to admit there’s nothing better than waking up in his bed. It’s something I could get used to and proves how much it will sting to say goodbye.

  I push that ugly thought aside. We have less than a week to enjoy each other. I won’t spend the time being regretful.

  “Your stamina was never in question, sir.”

  “Good.” His free arm snakes around my waist and pulls me closer. “Later, let’s test your theory. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how I’ll rise to the challenge.”

  “I’ll see how you do after today. If you do good, I’ll reward you.”

  “Just what does that reward entail?”

  I run my hand down his chest and stop right above his waistband. “Hmm, how about my lips wrapped around a certain body part that loves attention?”

  He straightens and grips his bucket tighter. “I’ll be the best damn grape picker this winery has ever seen.”

  I laugh. “Oh, you’re in for such a treat.”

  Westlyn follows me to the beginning, and after showing him the difference between ripe grapes versus the ones not quite ready and the proper technique of how to snip the grape bunch, he was good to go. The help left him alone.

  About three quarters of the way through picking, Westlyn wipes the sweat from his forehead. Squinting, he looks over at me. “There isn’t machinery that can pick these grapes faster?”

  “Yeah, the mechanical harvester, but we’re on too much of a slope. The land needs to be flat for the machine to work. Do you want to take a break?”

  “No, I’m good. But this is tedious work.”

  I laugh. “That it is.”

  He goes back to snipping another grape cluster. I admit, he lasted longer than I expected. I was ready to give up five rows back. My uncle only expected us to last a quarter of the way. I know this from the impressed glances he has tossed our way.