by Elle Kennedy
No, it isn’t worth it at all. I’ve worked too hard to have all my goals threatened by a movie star and his amazing penis.
I stride out in my robe, determined to tell Ben it’s over. That it’s time for him to face the press and stop using me as an excuse to hide out. Time to uncomplicate my life. But when I enter my room and find him sitting on the bed, the speech I’ve prepared dies on my lips.
He looks so damn upset that my chest squeezes. His broad shoulders are slumped over, his handsome features creased with worry. And when he looks up at me, the remorse pooling in his cobalt blue eyes is unmistakable.
He stands up and says, “I’m sorry.”
“Ben—”
“No, listen to me.” He steps closer and touches my chin. “I’m really sorry about the way I fucked everything up. I’m sorry about the paparazzi at the airport, and I’m so fucking sorry I tricked you into going to the Bahamas with me.”
Before I can speak, he kisses me, his lips softer and gentler than they’ve ever been. I try to focus, try to remind myself that it’s time we part ways, but the feel of his hot mouth on mine is too distracting. Considering I just got fired, the last thing I should want to do is have sex, but my body instantly responds to Ben.
“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers against my mouth.
I want to argue that the only way to make it up to me is to leave, to take his complications elsewhere and let me work everything out on my own. But my desire for him is too strong.
One last time, my needy body and my eager heart beg in unison.
I shouldn’t listen to either of those idiots, I know that. Falling into bed with Ben, even if it is just one last time, won’t make the situation any better. I still won’t have a job, the press will still be sniffing around me, Ben will still be asking me for things I’m not sure I can give. Sex isn’t going to change that.
But I can’t ignore my need for this man. And when his gorgeous eyes lock with mine and ask an unspoken question, I can’t say no.
I nod.
Without another word, Ben leads me toward the bed and peels the robe off my body. He grabs a condom, and then he lays me down on the patterned bedspread and kisses me again. He kisses me everywhere. My lips. My nipples. My stomach, my thighs, my clit. And while his tongue teases and explores every inch of me, all my anxiety dissolves and flees my body in the form of a soft whimper.
Silently, Ben removes his own clothes and lowers his body on mine. His cock slides into me in one swift stroke, but he doesn’t move, just leaves himself buried deep inside me.
Our gazes collide, and what I see steals the breath from my lungs. He looks turned on and needy and even a little vulnerable, and my heart does somersaults in my chest.
“Maggie,” he says, his voice coming out hoarse, ragged.
I wait for him to continue. He doesn’t. Instead he starts to move, his pace a sweet, rolling rhythm that has me gasping with impatience. He ignores my tiny whimpers, the way I grip his butt and try to pull him deeper inside.
“There’s no rush,” he whispers, pushing strands of hair out of my eyes.
He resumes the slow pace and I’m not sure how long he keeps it up. Minutes could’ve ticked by, hours even, but I don’t care. My eyelids flutter closed, and I almost purr, breathing in Ben’s spicy masculine scent as he fucks me slowly.
I kiss his chest, running my tongue along his collarbone, meeting his gentle thrusts with the measured rise of my hips. And just when I’m getting close, he withdraws abruptly, slides down between my legs, and presses his lips to my swollen clit. Licking, sucking, until I cry out from an orgasm so intense a wave of dizziness crashes over me.
Ben doesn’t let me recover, nor does he resume his lazy pace when he thrusts back inside me. “Now we can rush,” he growls, and plunges into me so fast and deep that it isn’t long before a second orgasm seizes my inner muscles. A moment later, Ben shudders and comes, finally allowing himself his own release.
He kisses my forehead, and then rolls off me to dispose of the condom. Staring at his sinewy, sweat-soaked back, I bite my lip to stop myself from asking him what just happened. Sex happened, duh, but it feels like something between us has shifted. Something that scares me and exhilarates me at the same time. Something I can’t explain with words, or label, or even analyze.
Oh fuck.
For the first time in my life, I wonder if maybe I’m falling in love.
29
Maggie
I don’t wake Ben before I leave the apartment the next morning. I know it makes me a coward, but I’m not ready to face him yet. Something changed last night and I know he felt it too. It showed in the way he held me after sex, the way he stroked my hair and fell asleep with his head against my breasts. The entire exchange was so damn intimate that I don’t even know what to make of it. It worries me. So much that I’m sneaking out today without a word and heading to the community center despite the chicken pox risk.
I just can’t be around Ben right now. Last night when the L-word floated its way into my mind, I was stunned. And terrified. Is it even possible to start falling for someone this fast? I’ve never been in love before, never allowed myself to feel anything even remotely close to it, so the fact that I somehow dropped my guard around Ben is petrifying. I’m supposed to hate him for messing with my job, for complicating my entire life with his sexy smiles and drugging kisses.
A day working with the kids is what I need. Kids have the strangest ability to clear your head and help you gain perspective on life.
I don’t usually work on Sundays, but I need to be out of the apartment, away from Ben and the conflicting emotions he stirs inside me. Paying my driver, I step out of the car and onto the sidewalk. The temperature is surprisingly hot for May. The sky is a clear blue and the breeze warm as it snakes through my hair. Yet, despite such a perfect day, the Broger Center is under attack by an evil presence.
As in, the crowd of paparazzi milling on the sidewalk in front of the building.
A chill runs up my spine despite the sunshine warming my face. The crowd rushes me the second they spot me.
“Maggie!” one reporter shouts. “Maggie, want to say a few words to TMZ?”
Oh God.
“How long have you been dating Ben Barrett?”
“Are you aware of his affair with Gretchen Goodrich?”
I want to melt into the sidewalk and become one with the cement, but the jerks won’t let me. Before I can blink, they’ve surrounded me. Cameras keep getting thrust in my direction.
“Maggie, did Ben pay you for sex? Is that why you were with him at the Lester Hotel?”
Something sharp pierces my heart. Are they implying I’m a prostitute?
Unable to breathe, I push one of the cameras out of my face and stalk forward. “I won’t even dignify that with an answer,” I mutter.
I zigzag through the mob, my steps getting faster the closer I get to the door. Once inside, I hurry down the corridor and wait until I’m out of sight from the front windows before I sag against the wall and gasp for air.
Why the hell is this happening? Why do these strangers even care about me?
“Maggie?”
I lift my head to find one of the counselors eyeing me with concern. “Hey, Karen,” I say, my voice unsteady.
“Gloria is in her office.” Karen looks hesitant. “You should probably go in and see her.”
“All right.”
Collecting my nerves, I walk to the main office. The teenage receptionist greets me with a sympathetic smile. An omen of things to come, obviously.
I head for my boss’s open doorway. The tiny Hispanic woman behind the desk gestures for me to close the door. “Hey, Maggie. Have a seat.”
I sit.
“Apparently you’re something of a celebrity.” Gloria’s tone isn’t angry, but bemused. Her gaze not accusatory, but concerned.
“Gloria…I’m so sorry about all this.” I wring my hands together, lace my fingers, then unlace them
and tuck my palms on my knees, but no amount of fidgeting can stop the river of guilt flowing inside me.
And I’m furious with those fucking reporters. It’s Sunday morning. The kids visiting the center today don’t deserve to have a bunch of slimy creeps snapping their pictures. Nobody here deserves all this unwanted attention.
“So you’re dating a movie star?” Gloria offers a small smile. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I envy you or pity you. Having the media on your back must be awful.”
I gulp. “Yes, it is.”
“Maggie, I’m going to be honest here.”
And here it comes.
“All this attention isn’t good for the center.”
A sigh lodges in the back of my throat. “I know.” The Broger Center doesn’t just give children a place to play sports, or get help with their homework. We also offer counseling services, and most of the kids—and parents—who come here are or have been victims of abuse. Sometimes we even provide shelter to women who show up having escaped from abusive husbands or boyfriends. We let them stay in one of the rooms on the third floor while we help them plan their next move.
Needless to say, this place won’t be a safe haven for anyone as long as its picture is splashed all over the papers.
“None of our kids, nor their parents, deserve to be pulled into a celebrity scandal.” Gloria’s voice draws me from my troubled thoughts.
“I agree,” I say quietly. “And I promise you I’ll straighten all this out.”
“I know you will.” She leans forward and rests her elbows on the desk. “But, until you do, it might be a good idea for you not to come in.”
My heart clenches. “If you think that’s best.”
“I know you wanted a permanent position here, honey, but right now isn’t the time to discuss it. Why don’t we let the media storm die down before we talk about anything permanent?”
Her words are like individual little stab wounds, and they leave me with a feeling of raw emptiness in my stomach. Piece by piece, my life is crumbling around me. Everything I’ve worked so hard for. Losing my job at the Olive was bad. Losing my place at the youth center absolutely crushes me.
“I guess I’ll be in touch, then,” I murmur, fighting hard to stop my tears from spilling over. I rise to my feet and extend my hand. “Thanks for being so nice about this.”
Gloria shakes my hand. “This isn’t personal, honey. I’m just trying to protect our community. Give me a call when things settle down, okay?”
“Sure.”
I leave Gloria’s office with my chin high and my shoulders stiff, but it takes all my willpower not to collapse on the linoleum floor beneath my feet. Somehow my legs manage to carry me outside, where I push through the nosy paparazzi and utter the words “no comment” so many times I want to scream.
They follow me. They actually follow me to the curb, hurling questions at me. Ben Barrett. Gretchen Goodrich. Lester Hotel. Sex. Affair. The words all mingle into one pounding bass line, making my head hurt.
Only when I flag down a cab and slide into the backseat do I finally allow the tears to fall.
30
Ben
I already know about the paparazzi at the Broger Center when Maggie walks into the apartment. I saw it on TMZ, and I’d never felt so powerless, not to mention enraged, at the sight of Maggie’s wide, confused eyes and her expression of sheer shock when that one jackass asked if I’d paid her for sex.
The accusation leaves me sick to my stomach. Maggie does not deserve to be humiliated like that.
“Red,” I start as she drops her keys on the hall table.
She silently heads for the kitchen.
I follow her, uneasy, maybe even a bit scared as I watch her pour a glass of water.
“Maggie,” I prompt.
Still no answer. Face blank, she sips on her water.
“Goddammit, babe, will you talk to me?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, her face scrunched up in disgust. “They followed me home,” she says. “They’re outside the building.”
My fists tighten with frustration. “I’ll call my agent to see how we can get rid of them.”
“Don’t bother.”
She blows past me and settles on the living room couch, leaving me to stare after her in bewilderment. Why is she acting so calm? Her privacy is being violated, her good name slandered, and she doesn’t care?
I rub my temples, unnerved by her reaction. I don’t like this. I don’t like the vacant look in her green eyes or the way she’s brushing all this off.
“I won’t let them say all this bullshit about you,” I finally growl. I pace the hardwood floor, fists still clenched. “We need to put a stop to this. Maybe we can file a restraining order.” But I know how unlikely that is. I’ve been dealing with these assholes for years. If they smell a scoop, nothing will stop them from getting it.
“Do you care about me, Ben?”
I frown.
“Do you care about me?” she repeats.
I sweep my gaze over her. She looks young and vulnerable in her blue jeans and V-neck T-shirt, her face free of makeup, her pretty features imploring me as she awaits my response. She wore her hair loose today, and it’s falling down her shoulders in soft waves, straight and curly at the same time. Wild and guarded, just like Maggie.
“Of course I care about you,” I say roughly. “Hell, I—” might be falling in love with you. But I don’t say that out loud. This woman has been a flight risk from day one. Any declaration of potential love will probably send her spiraling.
“Good.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and our eyes lock. “Then you need to leave.”
I stumble back. “What?”
“You need to leave, Ben. If you leave, they leave.”
I can’t believe she’s saying this. Yes, my presence in her life is currently causing an enormous mess, but I can make it go away. I’m Ben Barrett, for chrissake.
That’s the problem, pal.
I try to silence the harsh criticism that surfaces, but it won’t go away. It won’t go away because it’s the truth. Maggie is right. The problem isn’t whether I can get the paps to leave her alone—it’s that I placed her in the spotlight to begin with. My celebrity is ruining her fucking life.
If I weren’t Ben Barrett, but just a normal man with a normal life, Maggie wouldn’t be suffering right now.
“Gloria asked me not to come back to the center.”
Fuck. “Because of the paparazzi?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Yeah.” Maggie pauses. “Look, I can find another waitressing job, but I can’t be a social worker if I’m being followed and hounded by reporters. It’s not fair to the kids I work with.”
“Maybe you can put social work on hold for a while? Just until this all dies down.” I almost cringe at the desperation in my tone.
“On hold?” She casts a withering look in my direction. “It’s taken me six years to finish school. Attending classes part-time so I could work to pay my own tuition, so I wouldn’t be drowning in student-loan debt when I graduate. I’ve sacrificed friendships and relationships to keep up my schedule. I don’t have a goddamn life because of it, and now you’re telling me to put it on hold? That’s like saying all those years of hard work meant absolutely nothing.”
“I know.”
“I won’t throw it all away.”
“I know.” My throat tightens to the point where swallowing actually hurts. I know she’s right. I just don’t want her to be right.
“I don’t fit into your life, Ben. You said so yourself—you live in a plastic world.” She rises to her feet and eliminates the distance between us. “I can’t live in a plastic world. I need my life to mean something. Especially since I felt so meaningless growing up.”
Maggie reaches up and strokes my stubble-covered cheek. I haven’t shaved since we returned from Nassau, and the feel of her fingertips scraping over my two-day-old beard is torture.
&nbs
p; “You need to leave,” she says again.
How perfectly ironic. I’ve starred in dozens of movies where I play the savior who always gets the girl, but in real life it’s the exact opposite. I won’t get the girl this time. And instead of saving her, I turned her entire world off-kilter.
“If you want me to go, I’ll go.” I choke on the bittersweet lump in my throat. “But I want to thank you first.”
“For what?”
“For being there when I needed somebody.” I gulp. “And for being so damn real.”
Her bottom lip quivers. She blinks a couple times as if she’s fighting back tears. Somehow this makes me feel slightly better, knowing that saying goodbye is as hard for her as it is for me.
With a rueful smile, I trace the seam of her lips with my thumb, then lower my head to kiss the quivering away. It’s the sweetest kiss we’ve ever shared, and something inside me shatters when I finally pull my mouth away.
I take a step toward the front door, then pause to flash her my best Ben Barrett grin, and hope she can’t hear the sound of my heart cracking open in my chest.
“Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie whispers.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who should be sorry.” I grip the doorknob with one unsteady hand. “Goodbye, Red.”
31
Ben
“The prodigal son returns!” my mother declares as I trudge into the front hallway of my childhood home.
It’s nearly one in the morning, but I’m not surprised to see Mom up and about. She’s the ultimate night owl. I can’t even count how many times I’d slithered home in my youth at three in the morning thinking I orchestrated a successful sneak-out—only to find my mother baking cookies in the kitchen.
In fact, as I kick off my shoes and walk toward her, the scent of baked goods floats into my nostrils. Mom’s long red apron and the white flour sticking to her dark hair confirm she was baking up a storm prior to my arrival.
