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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
REBECCA
Istared at the laptopin front of me. Just under 7500 words—one of the longest drafts I’d ever written forAmerican Profile.Each word carefully chosen; each phrase selected with precision. I wanted it all to sound just right, as if composed by the objective journalist I’d envisioned myself to be when I pitched Landon’s public relations team. Each sentence needed to be perfectly crafted because this profile felt higher stakes than anything I’d ever written for readers. And for those like Lila Jacobs who remembered with glee how angry I’d been leaving my old job.
“Aren’t you the Rebecca Owens? The same person who left the Times last year and then wrote that epic Chatter thread burning the place down?”Between her comments and Landon’s mom’s, my confidence had been rocked over the weekend. But I had to push all negative thoughts aside.
I scrolled through the words again and reviewed the accompanying layout of photos. The article opened at the celebration for the new Chatter headquarters, then pivoted to our private conversations at his estate and on the tour. I left out the part about childhood bullies but added in a section about his stutter and how he’d overcome it. I also spent a large part of the back half on the food pantry and his vision for helping as many people as he could in South Florida.
Yes, it sounded good, flowed nicely, and was probably one of the better pieces I’d ever put my name on in my career. A lot of people were going to read this, and I was sure even more would share it. Something like this would have legs; I’d been around journalism long enough to know something so candid and raw would share well on Chatter and other social media outlets, especially given the mysterious billionaire at the center of the piece. The deck of photos sent by the Miami photographer I hired looked great, too, and gave the write-up a professional edge that surpassed my usual quality.
This was going to be incredible.
I finished the layout and approved the final checks, then set the email up to hit inboxes over the course of the next half hour. After a deep breath, I hit the send button.No turning back now.
It was only a few minutes after four on Thursday, too early to head down to the wine bar for a celebratory glass of vino. Still, I hoped Olivia would be behind the bar that night so I could get her take on the profile.
With time to kill, I got up from the desk chair and went into the bedroom. Once there, I closed the curtains and lay down on the fluffy white duvet that covered the bed. Since Sunday, Landon hadn’t been far from my mind, and that wasn’t just because of the article in my head. Every time I closed my eyes, I could almost feel his touch, smell his woody, musky scent all around me.
And it was intoxicating. So damn intoxicating.
I pulled the blue blanket at the edge of my bed over my body and allowed my shoulders to relax. After a few quiet moments I trailed my fingers down my stomach as I envisioned Landon doing the same, reliving his smooth touch and his even breath as he approached the apex of my thighs. I slipped my hand underneath the waistband of my fuzzy blue sweatpants and around the lace border of my underwear. When I reached my most private place, I moved my fingers back and forth across my clit, warming it up as I searched for fulfillment.
But it wasn’t enough.
I brought myself to climax, but the feeling did little to satisfy the overwhelming desire I felt each day I wasn’t in Landon’s presence, a pent-up sexual need that roamed in the background of everything, threatening to overwhelm my life at any moment.
God, I can’t remember a time when I have ever been this horny.
I took my hand out of my pants and sat up in bed. It was closer to five now, and more in the acceptable range for visiting the bar. Besides, if it wasn’t too busy, I’d have a chance to catch up with Olivia and relay at least some of what happened in Palm Beach. I hopped off the bed and crossed into the bathroom.
Yes, talking to my friend would help me sort through at least some of my confusion.
Some.
