“Good?” His tone is amused. “All the adjectives in the world, and you pick good ?”

“I’m sorry—were you expecting me to drop to my knees and suck your cock in appreciation?”

He laughs. Deep and low and huskily and infectiously. Tingles run through me at the tantalizing sound, and I rub my hands up my forearms to kill the goose bumps snaking across my skin. “Are you offerin’, sunshine?” he asks, still laughing.

“To punch you?” I ask, shifting so I can see him. “Sure. Name a spot and I’ll warm my hand up.”

“I can think of other reasons to warm your hand up.”

“And I can think of a million and one reasons to punch you.”

He leans over the back of the sofa and, resting his hands on my arms, lowers his mouth to my ear. His hot breath fans across my cheek, and he whispers, “Has anyone ever told you that you have violent tendencies when you’re angry?”

“Many times. Those people all learned real quick not to piss me off, but somethin’ tells me you ain’t that smart.”

“On the contrary, I’m smarter. I’m gonna keep pissin’ you off.” He releases me only to walk around the sofa and grab my hands. Curling his fingers around mine, he yanks me up, my front brushing his for a second. I squeak, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment at the silly sound that’s so unlike me.

Jesus. Now I’m squeaking like a fucking mouse.

I hear someone shout “bye,” but I’m swung out of the tent so quickly I can’t even turn my head to guess who yelled it.

His grip on me is tight, and he tugs me, his fingers a little too tight around my wrist as he pulls me through the throng of people and cameras.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?!” I snap, snatching my arm back.

“Jessie,” he says tightly, turning to face me. “People. Cameras.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“I do.”

“Well, I don’t! You’re not going to drag me off like some Neanderthal He-Man Tarzan like, ‘Me, Aidan! Jessie, woman!’ ”

Ignoring me, he grasps my hand again and pulls me to him, his other hand delving into my hair and clutching the loose locks, tugging my head back, making me gasp and opening my mouth for him to close his lips over it and draw all the air right out of my body with one single kiss.

I push at him with my free hand, because I’m not his fucking puppet, but he doesn’t relent. He doesn’t loosen his hold or even show any kind of recognition of me opposing this kiss.

Maybe because deep down, I don’t want to. I kind of love it when he kisses me, but I hate that I like it.

He nibbles lightly on my bottom lip and I relax into him, the very sensation feeling like falling against his toned body. Melting into him, almost.

And in this moment, with his lips burning hotly against mine, I bet I could convince myself that this isn’t a lie.

“We’re going,” he rasps, still against my mouth.

“Then move,” I whisper, breathing heavily.

Cameras are on us, snapping pictures, and I know that wonderful kiss was just documented, and I know that that moment will be spread across the tabloids and media news programs and the Internet by tomorrow morning. Hell, it’s probably being uploaded on Instagram or something.

He inhales sharply, slipping his fingers through mine and untangling the others from my hair. Easily, he steps to my side and loops his arm over my head, still holding my hand, and tucks me into him.

My heart is pounding too frantically to relax, but I do my best to anyway, because that’s my job here, isn’t it?

Pretending I don’t want to kiss him and rip his balls off simultaneously.

I think this plan might be simpler on paper than it is in reality.

Especially if he’s gonna keep fucking kissing me like that. I mean, for real, personal space, does it not exist in his world? I don’t care if I like his kisses. I don’t like how he grabs me and manhandles me like I’m a rag doll just to kiss me. I don’t care if he wants to perform backflips and become a circus monkey with his arms flexing and his abs out.

Okay, maybe I’d pay for that. But I’m only female.

And now I’m rambling and babbling inside my head.

I climb into his truck and slip my hands between my thighs. They’re trembling, but whether it’s from anger or ohmygodhejustkissedmelikethat I don’t know. It’s easier to hide them than to have to face them, because, well, I agreed to this.

I have to remember that. I agreed. To being his plaything in front of the cameras so he could be mine in front of Dax. Just now, it strikes me as kinda unfair given that the cameras will be around much more than Dax will be, but hey.

As I climb out of his truck without so much as a good-bye and slam the door, I remind myself again.

I agreed to this.

Aidan

There’s something to be said for waking up and finding your face plastered all over the Internet. And I’m damn sure it ain’t good.

I close the browser window on my laptop and then slam the top down for good measure. Then, for even better measure, I turn off the Wi-Fi on my phone, followed by my data connection. Some fan always finds a way into my personal email and bombards me with her crap.

“Ads!” Ella bangs on my bedroom door. “Your butt, here, now!” She knocks again, harder, and I groan, swinging the sheet off me.

“All right, all right,” I call back, dread filtering its way through my body as she thunders back down the stairs. If she’s yelling at me that way with her assistant sassy pants on, it only means one thing: Mr. Manager is on the phone.

For me.

Given how I’ve heard him tear Conner and Tate new assholes before, I can imagine what’s coming my way.

I tug on some sweatpants and go down a few stairs, tying the drawstring and almost tripping over a stupid doctor doll. It hits the wall and sings “Time for your checkup!” at me. I scowl at the odd little thing and go down the rest of the stairs, making sure I don’t step on any more of Mila’s toys.

Mom’s really gotta get that baby another toy box for this house.

“Ads!” Ella whispers harshly. “Marc! Phone!”

I take it from her and hold it to my ear. “Hey.”

“Aidan! You genius!”

I pause, then frown. Kye snorts, and Ella glares at him, mouthing, “Shut up!”

I focus on the call. “Genius?”

“Getting a girlfriend before you screw up!” Marc exclaims. “Brilliant!”

“Uh . . .”

“Just hang on to her long enough for Kye to get one too, will you? The media will be looking at you very differently now that you’re taken. . . .”

“You should see Twitter,” Ella mutters, sipping on a smoothie through a straw. She leans back against the counter and kicks a cupboard door shut with her foot. Hell—she’s barely been here, but she looks right at home against the old farmhouse-style room.

I bat my hand at her to get her to shush, then scratch my forehead. “Marc, hold up. Jessie isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Wh-what?”

“Not my real one anyway. It’s a ruse.”

“Are you paying her for it?”

“No. I’m not—” I pause when I glance at Ella. “Never mind.” I explain the reasoning briefly and grab the spare slice of toast off Kye’s plate. He reaches to punch me but I dart away, grinning.

“Okay. Whatever. It works. Make it last long enough for the rest of Tate’s bullshit to pass over.”

“Tate has no bullshit. For once.”

“Oh.” He hesitates. “Then make it last long enough for your bullshit not to take over. It’s good for business when you’re behaving.”

Considering we get more publicity when one of us fucks up, that makes no sense. “Sure. I planned on it.”

“Good. Make this believable. Public. Get photographed whenever you can. Make it obvious. Lovey pics. Happy pics. Good, strong, real relationship pics.”