Celebrity Playboy: All American Boy Series

by Readnour, Kimberly

  Celebrity Playboy

  All American Boy Series

  kimberly readnour

  Rae-Allen Publishing

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Kimberly Readnour

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Rae-Allen Publishing

  Cover Design by: Just Write. Creations

  Cover Image by: Wander Aguiar Photography LLC

  Cover Model: Christoph L.

  Editing by: Cait Marie from Functionally Fictional

  Proofreading by: Kaitie Reister

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also By Kimberly Readnour

  Join Kimberly Readnour’s Newsletter

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Welcome to Merlot, CA, an idyllic all-American town in wine country where love is in the air, the boys are grown as fine as the wine and the town is a breeding ground for second-chances, weddings, and brand-new beginnings.

  The All-American Boy Series gives you a taste of 15 of your favorite bestselling authors’ brand-new stories in this shared world experience. All books are standalone but may include cross-over in characters or scenes.

  Grab a glass of wine, put your feet up and let us whisk you away to wine country.

  The series includes the following books:

  Sierra Hill The Boy Next Door

  Poppy Parkes Boy Toy

  Evan Grace The Boy Scout

  Emily Robertson The Boyfriend Hoax

  Kaylee Ryan and Lacey Black Boy Trouble

  Kimberly Readnour Celebrity Playboy

  Marika Ray Backroom Boy

  Leslie McAdam Boy on a Train

  KL Humphreys Bad Boy

  Nicole Richard Hometown Boy

  Remy Blake That Boy

  Stephanie Browning The Boy She Left Behind

  Stephanie Kay About a Boy

  Renee Harless Lover Boy

  SL Sterling Saviour Boy

  “She slept with the boss. That’s the only reason why she got the last promotion. You know that, right?”

  I grind my feet to a halt right outside the breakroom’s entrance. Only one person is sleeping with the boss around here, and that’s me. Scanning the hallway for any other co-workers, I grip the coffee mug tighter and strain to recognize the gossip hounds’ voices.

  “That doesn’t mean she’ll get this promotion.”

  Ah, that’s Mark. His voice is a hard one to miss. Whenever he talks, I picture Justin Vernon from Bon Iver. His voice is that low and sexy. But the second voice—the high-pitched soprano tone—belongs to Carla, my work nemesis. She has had it out for me ever since I wrote the article that earned me the promotion within Hot Gossip’s organization. Sleeping with the boss was a bonus I never expected.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” my nemesis drones. “You don’t stand a chance. Trust me. I’ve been burned before.”

  “That may be so, but Tate’s a fair guy.”

  “Who thinks solely with his dick.” She scoffs and then adds, “It couldn’t be any more obvious. She turns a blind eye to all of his side pieces.”

  My mouth drops open in shocked disgust as Mark’s deep chuckle grates my nerves. Is this what everyone thinks about me? That I only stay with Tate for the job while he indulges in extracurricular activities? What side pieces are they even talking about? Ugh, there’s nothing worse than working for a trashy magazine. The employees suspect everyone acts like the people they write about. Worse yet, they deal with rumors so much, they believe them.

  With my shoulders back and head held high, I barge into the breakroom and flash a sardonic smile at Carla. “What seems to be the topic of discussion, folks?”

  Mark’s face turns a crimson red as he suddenly finds his shoes interesting. Carla’s mouth opens and then shuts, without uttering a sound. Well, what do you know? The cure for being a catty bitch has miraculously been discovered. All it takes is confrontation.

  I narrow my eyes. “Oh, you’re through bashing me now? That’s good because I think there are better ways to spend our time, yeah? Like actually trying to earn the promotion.” I turn to Mark, who I’d rather smack than be friendly to, but I need to make a point. To do that, I must play nice. “You’re a great candidate for the senior editing position. Do I want it? Hell yeah, who wouldn’t, but I’m not a shoo-in as some people want to believe. I have to earn all promotions around here just as before.” I march past them and place the coffee mug in the dishwasher. I tuck my shaking hands to my side and face them both. “And Carla, I suggest producing an eye-popping article to garner a future promotion you so desperately want. Now, if you excuse me, I have real work to do.”

  Sweat breaks across my forehead as I hightail it out of there and head straight to my boss-slash-live-in boyfriend’s office. I absolutely hate confrontation—avoid it at all cost—but sometimes, taking a stand is warranted. I knew rumors flew around the office once Tate offered me the copy-editing position. I was a new hire and fresh from my master’s program. It made sense. Then, the rumors escalated after he asked me out. But get real, people. It has been five years, and we live together, for crying out loud. It shows how naïve I am because I thought the rumors had calmed down.

  Apparently not.

  But the infidelity rumor is a new one to me.

  “Come on,” I mutter as I hit the elevator button again. My patience has reached its limit.

  As much as I want the senior editing position, I’m withdrawing my name from the running. I hate letting them win, but despite Mark’s douchebag remarks, he has five years more experience than me, and unlike Carla, he’s damn good at his job. Tate more than likely will choose him anyway, but I’m not taking the chance. I need to squash these rumors.

  I step off on Tate’s floor, surprised the only sound comes from my red-soled heels clicking against the marble flooring. Where’s his newly-hired receptionist, Jody? Or is it Jill? I can’t remember. He goes through too many. Not giving it a second thought, I bypass the nameless girl’s desk and swing Tate’s office door open.

  “Surpri—” The word dies on my tongue. I stand immobile as the world I know crashes around me. A shriek followed by an “oh shit” jars me from my stupor. I barely recognize the exasperated laugh coming from my mouth, but it’s the only sound I emit as Tate scrambles to pull his pants up. The nameless girl pulls her skirt down and tries to button her blouse.

  “Loni, I can explain.”

  I blink and wonder how the hell my boyfriend of five years can explain away that he was balls deep in his new rece
ptionist. I’ve been so stupid.

  His side pieces.

  Plural, as in many. Fucking Carla. She was right all along. And that thought makes my stomach churn. I’m going to be sick. Or maybe I’m going crazy because instead of laying into him, I spin on my heels and murmur, “We’re so done.” Then, I leave. The office will be buzzing with the next rumor. But this one—the one about the boss’s girlfriend moving out and quitting her job—will hold the truth.

  “Do not use that jerk’s behavior as an excuse to hate all men.” Amanda’s ominous tone rings through my car’s audio system and demands attention. She isn’t wrong to voice her concern, considering she knows my pattern—get burned from a playboy asshole and then swear off any human being with an attached male appendage.

  “Don’t worry. Thanks to you, I’ll have plenty of time to lick my wounds without running into anyone, let alone a man.” Thank God. I swear all men are cut from the same mold. The only exception is my best friend’s fiancé. Amanda happened to find the last good one. Me? I always seem to rank high in the cheated-on, jilted girlfriend poll.

  I ease off the gas pedal as I approach the infamous Devil’s Corner. Unease settles in my gut, like it has every time I’ve taken this pass since that dreadful day—the day my entire life changed. I fight the tears threatening to spill over and clear my throat. I’m feeling extra emotional today, but considering the circumstances, I’m allowed. “Thanks again for letting me crash at your family’s place. I’m eternally indebted to you.”

  “No, you’re not. You got dealt a shitty hand. That’s all.” Amanda’s declaration comes across strong, but I don’t miss the underlying pity in her tone. She’s a loyal friend. I hold my breath until I clear the deadly mountainous curve and then give my beloved silver Mercedes AMG coupe more gas. My engine purrs as Amanda’s voice cancels the sound. “The cabin is yours for however long you need it.”

  The cabin comes into view in the far-right distance. Tucked within the Sonoma mountain range, there is nothing rustic about the three-story mansion. Sure, the exterior may be white pine logs with a stone-faced base, but the interior is luxury at its finest. I take a hard right on the private drive that leads to the house.

  “It should only be a few weeks, but I appreciate your offer immensely. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had to go straight home.” I pause and let out a long sigh. “I’ve totally failed.”

  An awkward silence descends for a beat, making me question the validity of the statement. It’s one thing to think you’re a failure, but having it validated stings. My fingers wrap tighter around the smooth leather steering wheel.

  “Look, I’m sorry your boyfriend was a dickhead. You deserve better. But, Loni, his inability to keep his dick in his pants doesn’t reflect on your accomplishments.”

  “I suppose.” I halfheartedly agree but don’t believe what she says. My actions marred my accomplishments, and I have no one to blame but myself. My position in the company—my ex-position—is directly related to my failure, whether I intended it to be or not.

  Bypassing the garage, I pull alongside the front porch. Amanda gave me the main door code, so there’s no need to park in the garage. I’ll unload my suitcase and groceries first and then worry about the car tomorrow. The rest of the afternoon, I want to chill. The drive from Los Angeles has been long, and I’m tired. I let out a sigh and continue, “But I shouldn’t have slept with my boss to begin with.”

  “No, this has nothing to do with you and everything to do with him.” Her hum fills the cabin, and I can picture her tapping her lips, as she does whenever she ponders what to say. “View this time away as a pause. A time to sort out what you need. Like a reset button.”

  I stare out the windshield over my steering wheel to the bright blue sky. The color is a sharp contrast to the rows of pine and mossy greens that line the other side of the valley. This view captivated me ever since my first outing with the Longleys. I used to love coming here. The road may be scarier than hell and bring horrible memories, but I can’t deny the breathtaking views. Getting back to my roots is what I need to reset my mind and flush all men from my thoughts. It’s what I need to ponder what to do with my life.

  “I’m going to do just that. I need this week to figure out where to go from here.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you need anything. I’m sorry I can’t be there right now. Work is too crazy to pull away. Especially since I’ll be home in a week for my cousin’s wedding.”

  “I’m okay. I just couldn’t go back home yet.” No way. The last thing I want to do is face my aunt and uncle. As my guardians, they’ve always wanted what’s best for me. They’ll be so disappointed in my choices. Nope, I can’t see them. Not without a plan.

  “I’ll let you know if I hear anything on my end. Love you.” Amanda works for a rival magazine. She’s my inside source if Tate talks smack about me. I have no doubt he will.

  “Thanks, I love you, too. I’ll see you in a week or so.”

  “You know it. Call if you need anything.”

  The moment we hang up, the phone buzzes with an incoming text.

  Tate: Babe, come back home. It wasn’t what you thought.

  Really? I scoff. I’m pretty sure I know what I saw and that was finding my boyfriend banging his new receptionist. I don’t even respond to the overplayed fallback line as I swipe to erase the message. The jerk.

  My heels click against the stone slabs as I drag the cooler behind me. After punching in the code, I click the front door open and smile. Home sweet home. At least for a few weeks. I beat a path straight to the kitchen and pull my unsweet almond milk out of the cooler but freeze when I swing the refrigerator door open.

  Weird.

  My gaze slides to the gallon of whole milk and two half-gallon containers of orange juice. I take in the second and third shelves. Lunchmeat, hot dogs, and condiments line the shelves. And ew, is that bologna? Disgusting. Did Amanda call her staff and have them stock the fridge for a teen rave? But why? She knows I’ll never eat this crap. I’m a vegetarian. And whole milk? Who above the age of twenty-five drinks that anymore?

  Baffled, I push the disgusting food aside and unload the vegetables along with the rest of my items. When that task is complete, I bring in my luggage but abandon it by the front door. Putting it up can wait. Right now, I have a gorgeous view to get lost in. I stride across the hardwood planks to the floor-to-ceiling windows covering the living room’s far wall. This site right here—the dips and peaks of forest green—is what I need to help erase the fact that I’m jobless, homeless, and single. Not exactly where I want to be at twenty-nine.

  Where did my life go awry?

  Oh, that’s right. The moment I trusted that stupid male appendage.

  But never again. Any guy who puts out any type of flirty, playboy vibes is off limits. No more pretty boys either. You know the kind: tall, dark, and handsome with eyes that draw you in. Iris color doesn’t matter. Some guys have that charismatic way about them, and I won’t succumb to them anymore. I’ve been hurt too many times.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket again, but I ignore it as I continue to stare at the mountain range. I wanted to move out of this area, away from the memories, and live in a big city. San Francisco was too close. That’s why I went to college in Los Angeles and stayed. Life was working out, and I thought I had it all, until I didn’t.

  A creaking sound jars me from my thoughts as footsteps sound from behind. I clutch my chest and spin around. My scream morphs into a sputtering whimper the moment I take in the six pack of hotness standing at the end of the hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs the same midnight jet color as his slicked wet hair. And he’s barefoot. Jesus, the guy even has sexy feet.

  “Who the hell are you?” a gruff voice calls out.

  “Who am I?” I unclench my fingers splayed across my chest and gesture to the breathing wall of beauty. “Who are you?” I ask as if I have no idea who this man is, but the crack in my voice and overanxious tone
isn’t fooling anyone. I know who he is. But what I don’t know is why the heck the infamous River Danes is standing half-naked in my friend’s cabin.

  The beautiful man cocks an eyebrow, as if he isn’t buying what I’m selling.

  I try again, sounding more convincing. “Well? Who are you, and why are you squatting here?”

  “I think you know exactly who I am. How did you get inside?” He tosses his shoulders back and crosses those defined arms across his chest. I stage an inner war to keep my gaze from dipping lower along his body. But oh my God, it’s hard not to. “Better yet, how did you find out I was here?”

  “Dude, check your ego. I’m not here for you. I had no idea anyone was staying here.” Of course, Celebrity Playboy’s ego is huge enough to think I’m here for him. What else would the most sought-after Hollywood actor think? Hot Gossip magazine has run plenty of articles about River Danes’s trysts with various actresses and models. Trust me. There’s been plenty. And working for the magazine has afforded me the luxury of knowing all the Hollywood dirt. Among the many different scandals, Mr. Hollywood ranks at the top, and that certainly includes his latest indiscretions. Today’s featured headline asked the question, “Where is River Danes?”

  River steps toward me slowly, almost calculating. It’s as if he’s measuring my sanity level. Oh, I’m completely sane right now. So much so that I’m dying to answer my own tabloid’s question. Just as the first damning article I wrote about him advanced my career, this bit of information would propel me to the next level. The senior editor position would be mine. As titillating as that sounds, I find it hard not to fangirl. I spent my teenage years fantasizing over this man. Then, I grew up and learned how much of a commitment-phobe asshole he was. He left a very long line of broken hearts during his career. But damn, his attitude doesn’t take away from his hotness. Those ripped muscles look as if a 3D imaging device molded them. They’re that perfect. I mean, who has abs like those? And those thick muscular thighs? It’s hard not to visualize how that body would feel sliding against me. Not to mention his bulge. Jesus. Did he sport a sock in his boxer briefs? That can’t be real. I snap out of my trance and force myself to look up, my gaze landing right on his sexy-as-sin smirk. Damn it, he caught me staring. Again.