Page 93 of Playboy Pitcher
“Romeo and Juliet killed themselves.”
She gives me an exasperated glare. “Fine. Arthur and Guinevere.”
“A stellar couple who cheated on each other and also died.”
“Are you going to argue with everything I say? Believe it or not, peoplewantto believe in happily ever after. They want proof everyone really has a soulmate out there, and when they meet, time doesn’t matter. Nothing does.”
Now she’s starting to sound like my parents—waxing all that poetic soulmate crap like it really exists. Because it’s impossible, right? People don’t just storm into your life out of nowhere and change you overnight. They don’t chip away at your sanity and consume your soul until they’re a part of it. Not in real life.
“You sound like a greeting card,” I grumble.
Willow looks down at her hand still resting softly on my shirt and curls her fingers into her palm. “Papers can print words, but that’s all they are, Ben…words. Reporters can give regurgitated sound bites of our side of the story, but they can still be molded to fit their angle. This,” she says, gesturing toward the closed door. “This we control. You’re right. Itislive TV. Which means it can’t be altered or stitched together to create something it’s not. The world is watching, and we either convince them we’re America’s favorite soulmates or America’s biggest fraud.”
Her words cut through me like a knife. For four years I’ve let the media control who I am. They slapped a label on me, and instead of proving them wrong, I gave them what they wanted. They created “Playboy”, but I brought him to market.
This is my chance to show the world who Benson LaCroix really is. The thing is, I’m not sureIeven remember.
“What if I screw up?”
“You won’t.” Moving closer, she rests her chin on her arm, reaching the other across my chest and running her nails through my hair. “For one ten-minute segment, forget agreements or addendums. You’re not Benson LaCroix, star pitcher, and I’m not Willow McBaine, Roger Mays’s daughter. We’re just Ben and Willow.”
Just Ben and Willow. Two fucked-up magnets who despite defying all sense and logic, can’t seem to stay apart. “What if they ask us things about each other we can’t answer?”
“Like what?”
“Why we don’t live together for starters.”
She doesn’t hesitate, the answer rolling right off her tongue as if she’d prepped for hours. “I’m still handling my father’s estate, and you have a condo. These things take time. It doesn’t mean we sleep there.”
Damn, she’s good.
“What about personal things? You know they’ll ask.”
Cupping the back of my head, Willow sighs. “Ben, stop. We can do this, but we have to do it together. I promised you a team and a legacy. I won’t let you down.”
The room crackles with tension and something else. Something I’m not ready to acknowledge. Tracing her jawline, I sink my fingers into her thick hair and draw her close. She relaxes in my arms, her eyes fluttering closed.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
I groan her name, leaning in to claim her mouth, when the door swings open.
“Two minutes, Miss McBaine.”
Willow smiles against my lips. “Thank you. We’ll be right there.” As soon as the door shuts, she gives me a quick peck before leaping to her feet. “Showtime, Playboy.”
Sighing, I stand. “And you’re convinced this is going to work.”
“Absolutely. Once we have America on our side, we can leverage new sponsors. I mean, look at the response tous.” She grins. “People want the personal side of the game. Real behind the scenes shit.” Her eyes flash with passion and excitement. It’s so infectious even I’m starting to buy into it.
Hooking my arm around her waist, I drag her against me. “If I do this for you, what do I get?”
Cocking her chin, she looks up at me with that dirty girl stare and trails that fingernail up my chest. “Whatever you want.”
Oh, Puddles. Never play a player.
“I’m glad you said that. Because I want the truth.”
Her finger stills, her sultry smile fading into a pained grimace. “The truth?”
