****
Douglas Heights was an unassuming subdivision, lined with modest homes and tailored yards. Since most of the residents were retirees or single families, the most excitement one would find was a cookout or two, a kid’s birthday party or a nail biting game of bridge. As soon as Jacob’s jet landed and I went from the back of a chauffeured Town Car to the worn driver’s seat in my rusty Volvo, normal had never been so appealing; after the whirlwind month I’d had, normal was just what the doctor ordered.
If you would have told me four weeks ago that I'd land a job at Whitmore and Creighton and end up falling in love with the billionaire CEO Jacob Whitmore, I probably would have laughed right in your face. Well, maybe part two would have been believable. With his broad shoulders, bronzed skin, piercing blue eyes and a body that made the rounds in every red-blooded woman’s fantasy, falling for Jacob was a mathematical certainty. But getting to know the man behind the handsome and controlled facade and him falling for me ? Impossible.
But Jacob had spent the past month showing me that anything could happen and my wildest dreams could come true. From museums that took my breath away and foods that brought my palette to life to the lush Italian countryside and sultry Venice nights, I didn't want for anything. And in the bedroom, submission had transformed from a foreign thing I'd only read about into something I was born to do and be.
But being Jacob Whitmore's girlfriend wasn't all midnight strolls, private jets, and kinky activities behind closed doors. Because of his high profile business, publicity and public relations for celebrities, he'd become a celebrity in his own right--which meant his personal life wasn't quite so personal. And since I was the mysterious new squeeze, neither was mine. I needed Douglas Heights. I needed the ease and comfort of it; a predictable reality without cameras shoved in my face.
I frowned as I spotted cars pepperi ng the road leading up to the subdivision. They were parked every which way, obviously not caring who they were inconveniencing. I slowly tugged my old sedan between two non-descript vans, cursing under my breath. What the hell was going on at 11 a.m. on a Thursday morning? And why did none of them know the basics of parking a vehicle?
And then I saw them. Men in button down shirts, skittering across the pavement in tennis shoes. Tennis shoes were a must. How else would they dart around to get that perfect, embarrassing shot?
My heart shot to my throat as I slammed on the brakes. I follow the breadcrumbs with my eyes to a familiar white and green shuttered house. A house where the yard was always kept trimmed and leaves never stood a chance. A house where an ancient F 150 was parked dutifully at the curb and an Accord was tucked in the driveway. A house where the paparazzi were huddled like flies on shit.
My parent's house.
I didn't even bother trying to find a space; it would have been pointless since they were practically bumper to bumper. I just put the car in park and hopped out, following a few stragglers to the crowd gathered near the mailbox. Questions and fragments of conversation swirled around me and the beating thing in my throat shot past the heart shaped hole in my chest right down to the cement.
"The kid’s mother said she was coming home today."
"Did you hear her talking about Jacob popping the question?"
I was suddenly grateful I took a page from America's sweetheart and my personal nightmare, Rachel Laraby, and opted for a beanie that mostly contained my wild corkscrews and an oversized gray T shirt and jeggings--not just because the phototogs were clearly camped out for me, but because I refused to believe my mom had sold me out. The only way I’d find out the truth would be if I faded into the crowd.
I froz e in the shuffle when I saw my mother’s familiar brown eyes, made up to high heaven. There was so much foundation and blush caking her
Douglas Heights was an unassuming subdivision, lined with modest homes and tailored yards. Since most of the residents were retirees or single families, the most excitement one would find was a cookout or two, a kid’s birthday party or a nail biting game of bridge. As soon as Jacob’s jet landed and I went from the back of a chauffeured Town Car to the worn driver’s seat in my rusty Volvo, normal had never been so appealing; after the whirlwind month I’d had, normal was just what the doctor ordered.
If you would have told me four weeks ago that I'd land a job at Whitmore and Creighton and end up falling in love with the billionaire CEO Jacob Whitmore, I probably would have laughed right in your face. Well, maybe part two would have been believable. With his broad shoulders, bronzed skin, piercing blue eyes and a body that made the rounds in every red-blooded woman’s fantasy, falling for Jacob was a mathematical certainty. But getting to know the man behind the handsome and controlled facade and him falling for me ? Impossible.
But Jacob had spent the past month showing me that anything could happen and my wildest dreams could come true. From museums that took my breath away and foods that brought my palette to life to the lush Italian countryside and sultry Venice nights, I didn't want for anything. And in the bedroom, submission had transformed from a foreign thing I'd only read about into something I was born to do and be.
But being Jacob Whitmore's girlfriend wasn't all midnight strolls, private jets, and kinky activities behind closed doors. Because of his high profile business, publicity and public relations for celebrities, he'd become a celebrity in his own right--which meant his personal life wasn't quite so personal. And since I was the mysterious new squeeze, neither was mine. I needed Douglas Heights. I needed the ease and comfort of it; a predictable reality without cameras shoved in my face.
I frowned as I spotted cars pepperi ng the road leading up to the subdivision. They were parked every which way, obviously not caring who they were inconveniencing. I slowly tugged my old sedan between two non-descript vans, cursing under my breath. What the hell was going on at 11 a.m. on a Thursday morning? And why did none of them know the basics of parking a vehicle?
And then I saw them. Men in button down shirts, skittering across the pavement in tennis shoes. Tennis shoes were a must. How else would they dart around to get that perfect, embarrassing shot?
My heart shot to my throat as I slammed on the brakes. I follow the breadcrumbs with my eyes to a familiar white and green shuttered house. A house where the yard was always kept trimmed and leaves never stood a chance. A house where an ancient F 150 was parked dutifully at the curb and an Accord was tucked in the driveway. A house where the paparazzi were huddled like flies on shit.
My parent's house.
I didn't even bother trying to find a space; it would have been pointless since they were practically bumper to bumper. I just put the car in park and hopped out, following a few stragglers to the crowd gathered near the mailbox. Questions and fragments of conversation swirled around me and the beating thing in my throat shot past the heart shaped hole in my chest right down to the cement.
"The kid’s mother said she was coming home today."
"Did you hear her talking about Jacob popping the question?"
I was suddenly grateful I took a page from America's sweetheart and my personal nightmare, Rachel Laraby, and opted for a beanie that mostly contained my wild corkscrews and an oversized gray T shirt and jeggings--not just because the phototogs were clearly camped out for me, but because I refused to believe my mom had sold me out. The only way I’d find out the truth would be if I faded into the crowd.
I froz e in the shuffle when I saw my mother’s familiar brown eyes, made up to high heaven. There was so much foundation and blush caking her
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