Smooth skin revealed as clothes disappear, round curves to map out. Her waist is thin, but her hips are a bit wider. Her legs are long. I know her calves are toned, but I wonder if she goes to a gym, of it that comes naturally from working on her feet all day.
The picture gets fuzzy somewhere between her legs, my imagination struggling to come up with something when the only frame of reference I really have is my own body. But the sound of a vibrator buzzing is loud in my mind.
I focus my fantasy on her face. On how hot she must look when she tumbles over the edge of pleasure.
And with that final image, I come back to myself, realizing what I’m doing. That I’m standing here in this woman’s shower. That my skin is hot and tight. That I’ve gotten turned on imagining her in an intimate moment that I’ve never actually seen, and in reality, probably never will.
I have no right thinking of her like that when all she’s offered me is potential friendship, a chance to get clean, and a spare bed for the night. I have no right wanting things that I know I can’t have if I’m going to have any hope of saving my career. Things that I’d likely be too scared to take if they were offered, anyway.
Hurrying through the rest of my shower and avoiding touching myself where my body is aching to be touched, I try to convince myself that everything is fine. Nothing has changed. Addison has been kind to me, and I just want to get to know her better, to connect to someone besides my brother while I’m staying in Mayweather.
All these new thoughts and feelings and attractions I’m experiencing can be ignored. I need to focus on what’s important. Getting my career back to where it was before the kissing scandal, before the Skyler drama.
I can’t afford to lose everything I’ve worked for. I’ve been America’s Country Sweetheart for so damn long now that I’m not sure I even know how to be anything else.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ADDISON
There’safamouscountrystar in my kitchen cooking me dinner, and I don’t know what to do with that. A famous,gorgeous enough to drive me crazy, country star. I shouldn’t be so affected by her presence, because first of all, I’m not looking to dateorsleep with anyone right now. And second, because it seems like she showed up here with a whole lot of baggage. And I don’t mean all that stuff I almost tripped over in the lobby of the inn.
My life has been drama-free since I got the hell out of my joke of a marriage and all the way out of Chicago. The only drama I have to deal with now is Brenden’s, which is usually more entertaining than stressful.
But there’s something about the way Riley fucking Rowland looks at me that makes it impossible to look away from her.
It’s like she’s truly interested in seeingme, despite the glamorous life she must lead and all the other rich celebrities she knows. And it kind of feels like she’s looking for something in me that might be able to help her find something in herself. That’s the part that’s hardest to ignore—and also the most dangerous.
The last thing I want is to wind up in a headline as the random small-town woman Riley Rowland was spotted with. And I’m not interested in being anyone’s queer experiment. But she seems so genuinely curious, andmore than a little lost in a way that makes me want to take care of her and see her happy.
And okay, yeah. Did I mention the part where she’s so gorgeous it’s driving me crazy?
I can’t believe she found my fucking vibrator in the damn couch. As if my lack of a sex life wasn’t obvious enough, now she’s aware that I sometimes get bored and try to mix it up by fucking myself in the living room. I’m not typically embarrassed by stuff like that. But seeing her small hand with her pink fingernails wrapped around the toy I use to get myself off had half of me wishing the couch would swallow me up completely, and the other half imagining her being the one using it to get me off. Or me taking it from her hand and using it on her. Or both. Preferably both.
Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?
And now, after that unfortunate incident, she’s cooking me dinner. Which is... unexpectedly sweet. I’m so used to being the one cooking for everyone. Family and friends know I’m a chef, so even when I’m not working, people still expect me to cook. I’ve never really minded before, because it’s something I truly enjoy doing.
But the fact that she offered, that shewantedto do it for me, is one more thing to add to the list of things about her that have been a pleasant surprise.
We ran to the grocery store together so she could grab the ingredients she needed for teriyaki salmon bowls, and as we were selecting produce, I found myself thinking about how domestic it felt. I also found myself struggling to recall a single time during our marriage that Christy and I ever did that together. Christy hated grocery shopping, and she pretty much hated cooking. Yet she still fought to be the one who kept the restaurant when we divorced.
At the time, I couldn’t understand why, other than simply to spite me. It wasn’t until later that I learned she hired a famous social media influencer to be the new head chef. A woman she’d been cheating on me with.
Anyway, after the nice outing of grocery shopping with Riley, she banished me from my own kitchen—or she might have simply suggested I go relax while she does the work. But I’m realizing now that, even though I told her I wasn’t worried about her messing up my kitchen, I may be more of a control freak in that area than I thought. So I’ve already checked on her twice, and now I’m itching to do it again.
If I’m being honest with myself, though, it may not bestrictlybecause I’m worried about potential kitchen disasters, but also because relaxing is pretty much impossible while knowing this woman is in my house, only a room away from me.
When I wander into the kitchen for the third time, she simply laughs and shakes her head. The smile on her face as she resumes what she was doing makes me wishIwas the songwriter so that I could properly memorialize the beauty of it.
Freddie is weaving himself between her legs—probably trying to trip her up in hopes she’ll drop some food on the floor for him—but she doesn’t seem bothered by my greedy little menace.
Still, I go over and scoop him up, pressing a kiss to the top of his soft head. “Sorry about him.”
“Oh, he’s been fine,” Riley says as she ladles the rice she cooked into two bowls.
“Maybe so far, but you’ve got to watch out for him. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do for salmon.”
With a short laugh, she responds, “Same.”
