America’s Geekheart Read online

  If everything falls to hell, if people quit buying RYDE clothes—and the clothes from my other lines too—I’ll be okay. I have plenty of money. Plenty of options.

  After what I did Friday night, I could just disappear into oblivion, but I don’t want to go out like this—the most hated man in America who pulled a shithead move with a really bad joke that I thought my sister would appreciate.

  Especially when if I can fix it, I can keep putting my money to good use to help the kids of the world.

  So I’ll be the asshole who uses Sarah, even if I don’t like it.

  I double-check that the oven’s heating up and I head into the living room with a can of Barq’s root beer to reclaim my place between the women on the couch. Score’s one-nothing in the bottom of the first. No outs, no runners on base.

  “Lead-off home run for Tampa?” I ask.

  “Shut up and do something for good luck,” Mackenzie grumbles.

  I glance at Sarah, who freezes mid-chew on a mouthful of popcorn.

  “She doesn’t mean kiss me,” she says around another mouthful of popcorn.

  I’m pretty good at translating full-mouth talking, mostly because it’s my first language.

  Also, now that she mentions it, I wonder how much luck a kiss could really bring.

  Probably not much. Especially once I finally force myself to ask her if she’ll pretend go out with me.

  Plus, superstitions aren’t really my thing, but I’m happy to humor two lovely ladies who believe in them.

  I force a grin and settle back against the couch. “Luck comes from all kinds of places,” I tell her.

  Probably not from doing the Hollywood cop-out of taking a girlfriend to make you look good, but definitely from other places.

  Sarah slides her phone out of her pocket, and I go momentarily tense until I realize she’s not planning on snapping a picture of the three of us to post on social media, which wouldn’t actually be a bad thing for my image. I’m just falling very quickly out of love with the entire word image, and after almost having to pay a woman off to not post a sex video of me pre-second-paternity test, I still get jumpy.

  But she’s pulling up a YouTube feed of a giraffe eating in a concrete enclosure.

  Duh. She doesn’t want pictures with me. Or videos with me. She wants to be left alone.

  But here I am, not leaving her alone.

  “Is that the giraffe at the Copper Valley zoo?” I ask her.

  “Pregnant and due anytime in the next six weeks,” she confirms. “Her name’s Persephone.”

  “Is it bad luck to watch a pregnant giraffe when you’re supposed to be watching the Fireballs?” I murmur while I watch the giraffe chewing on grass out of a feeding bucket right at her head level.

  “It would be worse luck for giraffes to go extinct.”

  “Whoa. Did you see the size of her tongue?” I lean in closer to get a better look at the screen. She has an older model phone, one of those smaller devices that Ellie’s always telling me fit better in a woman-size hand and a woman-size pocket. I catch a whiff of caramel and coffee, and when my arm brushes hers, she tenses.

  I pull back, because dude, personal space.

  This growing fascination is clearly not reciprocated. “Sorry. Forgot about the bubble.”

  She shifts those big dark eyes at me, her brows furrowing like I’m a weirdo.

  “Personal bubble,” I clarify. “Ellie reminds me every time I’m in town that not everyone’s comfortable with a stranger being all up in their junk.”

  Mackenzie coughs. “How many people are watching?” she asks Sarah, who mumbles a number in response.

  “Did you just say five million?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Holy shit, Sarah. That’s ten times as many people as were watching yesterday.”

  She doesn’t answer, but her cheeks are getting a splotchy red.

  “Whoa, did you see that strike?” I say.

  Mackenzie glances at the TV, then back at Sarah. “Five million. Not bad for a little bit of public attention with a short video,” she says quietly.

  Sarah shovels a handful of popcorn into her mouth and shuts down the giraffe cam. She’s leaning against the armrest, giving herself a lot of physical space. And she’s not looking at either of us, but instead puts all her attention on the game.

  And I’m suddenly insanely curious as to why she hates the limelight.

  It’s obvious she does.

  But not obvious why.

  I know some people are just shy. But I also know she went out and grilled the private security guards we put on the street—for her and Ellie and Wyatt and Tucker—and asked questions most people wouldn’t know to ask.

  And last night’s I speak Hollywood—there’s a story hiding under all that thick dark hair and behind those big brown eyes.

  And whatever it is, if we can get past it, maybe she’ll still appreciate the extra attention for the giraffes.

  Maybe I’m not a total asshole for being here to ask her if we can play the accidental lovers for the world.

  Tampa scores twice more, and when the first inning is finally over, Sarah rises and stretches, pulling her jersey high and exposing the barest hint of smooth olive skin at her waist.

  I’ve done shoots with supermodels that haven’t left me insanely desperate to know if their skin was as soft as it looks, and I have to shift in my seat to combat the swelling problem in my crotch.

  Maybe if she tasers me again, it’ll undo whatever the first shock did yesterday.

  Except I’m not actually annoyed at my body’s reaction to her.

  More curious.

  And definitely intrigued.

  But still wary.

  “That was fun,” she says with a grimace. “I’m going to check on my bees.”

  I watch her hips sway under her jersey while she strolls out of the room and into the kitchen.

  And I don’t even realize I’m watching her ass until she disappears.

  But I notice when she’s gone.

  Eleven

  Sarah

  Holy hell, he was close.

  I step out into the sunshine and take my first full breath since Beck arrived. My bees are buzzing around the wildflower gardens lining the privacy fence, darting between their blocky wooden hives and the petals, and the gentle hum makes my shoulders relax even more.

  I tuck myself into one of the outdoor lounge chairs under my pergola after making sure the little fairy fountains set up around my small yard have fresh water, and I pull out my phone again. I’m doing a quick search for my parents’ names on Twitter—even though I’d rather google for a hint about my Vikings in Space game or prep more tweets about the giraffes or even just watch Persephone in her enclosure at the zoo—when my back door opens and the underwear ape sticks his head out.

  “Hey. You want some of these fries? I can’t tell when your friend’s being serious about you selling your soul for bacon cheese fries, but I’m definitely not going to pass up a chance to prove I have culinary skills in addition to all these amazing good looks.”

  Is he really the kindhearted slightly egotistical goofball he’s playing? Or is it an act? “If you find it in my kitchen, odds are good I enjoy eating it,” I say.

  Not all smart-ass.

  More teasing. Because honestly, it’s hard not to relax a little when he’s being a total goofball. The self-deprecation in his amazing good looks line was so thick, you could smear it on toast.

  And it works, because he grins that bright smile that makes his deep blue eyes crinkle at the edges. “It’s not just for your cat?”

  “I’m not interested in pretending to be your girlfriend,” I announce.

  So maybe I don’t have all the teasing in me.

  He ambles out, long arms loose despite being tucked into his jeans pockets.

  Also, who wears jeans in this weather? It’s pushing eighty-five, but here he is fancy denim that fits his slender hips like they were built for him, which they
probably were because of course he’ll be wearing his own line of clothes, and a mint green button-down that should make him as dangerous as a plastic Easter egg but instead is cut just right around his wide shoulders, tapering down his trim waist and hanging at mid-crotch, which is probably the length that clothing scientists determined was most likely to induce lust-comas among the general female population.

  I have no idea how they determine such things, but I do know that his shirt ending mid-crotch is making me think about his crotch, which is a bad, bad idea.

  And also the fact that I’m wearing RYDE underwear again makes this entire moment way more intimate than it should be.

  He’s branded my underwear.

  Literally.

  He stops to lean against a post in my pergola, the sun shining on his dark hair, all his model fabulousness amplified with the quaint beauty in my small backyard, blue eyes deceptively unconcerned. There’s no way a guy like this isn’t worried about all the boycotts being announced for his various fashion lines.

  “You seeing somebody?” he asks.

  “Why does not wanting to pretend to be your girlfriend have to immediately be followed by the assumption that it’s because I’m seeing someone?”

  “Who’s Trent?”

  Oh. Right. “An ex. Physics professor downtown writing computer simulations about the Big Bang. He gave me the best orgasms of my life.” Oh, shit, shut up, Sarah.

  And there it goes, right on cue. The smoldery grin and schmootzy charm. “Sarah Dempsey, are you throwing down?”

  “That wasn’t a challenge.”

  “No? Because that sounded like a challenge.”

  “You know what? Maybe it would be if you weren’t here to ask me to play your girlfriend.” There’s entirely too much truth in that statement, because even knowing that this charming, self-deprecating, food-loving man is probably playing a role, he’s still freakishly hot and funny, and I’m still a red-blooded woman.

  He opens his mouth, then rubs his hand over it while he looks away.

  Not at all denying that he’s here to ask me to play his girlfriend.

  “So you’ve been online today,” he says.

  “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

  Those deep blue eyes swing back to study me, and yeah, I can see why this guy’s looks have made him a boatload of cash.

  He plays the doofus well, but he can also focus very well when he has to. Like last night. On the video. And when he left.

  “You know about Ellie’s accident?” he asks.

  I shake my head, unsure where he’s going, because yes, I know she was in an accident, but I don’t know details. Not beyond the nuggets he gave me last night while we were making our video.

  Wow, that didn’t sound right in my head.

  I really wish I hadn’t grown up in Hollywood.

  “Happened at Christmas,” he says, clearly missing what’s going on in my gray matter, thank god. “Year and a half ago. Crushed her left leg. Doctors didn’t think she’d walk again.”

  “Oh. I—that’s awful. But I wouldn’t know by looking at her now.”

  He grins wryly. “She doesn’t like to be underestimated. Clearly. Pretty sure she could fly if someone told her she couldn’t.”

  “That’s technically physically impossible,” I point out.

  “Dammit, Sarah, now she’s gonna have to prove you wrong.” His eyes twinkle, and it’s not some trick of a camera. But he sobers quickly with a glance next door at Ellie’s house. “I was home when we got the call, since it was the holidays. Scariest fucking days of my life. Didn’t know if she’d pull through and wake up. Then if she’d walk. And how much care she’d need. How she’d be emotionally and mentally. And I realized I’m home maybe three or four weeks a year. My parents are getting older. Ellie’s marrying my best friend. Making his kid officially my nephew. I don’t want to be gone so much. I don’t want to spend my Sundays running a PR machine when I fuck up. Family’s where it’s at, you know?”

  I cringe, because I see my parents less than he sees his.

  It’s not that I don’t love them.

  It’s more that I don’t fit the ideal Hollywood image, and I never have.

  Especially once I hit high school.

  Add in all those little bits of my own taste of the level of scrutiny they live with and couldn’t always shield me from—yes, I was that Hollywood child people speculated about actually being my dad’s secret love child since there’s no way I had my mother’s beauty in me—and I haven’t actually been to their house in six or seven years.

  We meet in obscure locations unlikely to have reporters lurking around when our schedules line up, and we talk on the phone or video chat a couple times a month.

  “You have family?” he asks.

  “It’s complicated,” I say. Lamely.

  “But you’ve got Mackenzie,” he points out with a flirty grin.

  “So you’re selling off your business?” I ask him, because deflection is key.

  His eyes narrow. “What?”

  “It’s how it works, right? You want to step back, so you have to get rid of some of your responsibilities. Unless you’re quitting modeling altogether, but you’re a package deal. You model your own stuff now. It’s not the Beck Ryder brand if some young whippersnapper comes in and tries to do your smolder for you. So you’re selling off to someone who has an up-and-coming superstar who can step into your shoes, but not if you ruin the brand first.”

  “Somebody’s been doing her sleuthing.” He winks at me like it’s adorable that I care enough to look him up.

  Except I didn’t look him up, because I’ve already seen a time or three how celebrities function in the fashion industry.

  But now he thinks I’m totally into him.

  If he weren’t famous—and gorgeous—and I wasn’t a giant geek who isn’t interested in the pretty boys who are almost always a disappointment, this could go somewhere. But he’s only here because he needs something. “I won’t be your PR stunt.”

  He pushes off the post and comes to sit in the chair next to mine, legs spread wide so our knees are almost touching. I hold still, because I don’t want him to see my flinch.

  “You don’t like public attention,” he says.

  “Or lies,” I say, exactly like the hypocrite I am, because lying is exactly what I’ve been doing most of my adult life.

  “Three phone calls, and I can get ten million more people watching Persephone and learning about the bees and the giraffes.”

  I’d call bullshit, except I know a thing or seven about Bro Code, and I know Beck’s the least successful of the guys who stayed in the public limelight after the band broke up. It’s not that I wanted to follow Levi Wilson or Cash Rivers, but living in Copper Valley, where they all grew up, it’s impossible to not know about them.

  Which means it’s almost impossible to not know that he’d call both of them and ask them to share the video feed of Persephone and talk about giraffes being endangered.

  To their gazillionty fans.

  They’ve already publicly stood up for him on their social media platforms, while somehow also apologizing to me on his behalf.

  People fuck up, and Beck’s my brother from another mother who’s going to make this right for the poor girl he pulled into his shit was the gist of both of their messages.

  “Is this bribery or blackmail?” I ask.

  “I’m not selling,” he tells me, “but I am working on delegating what I can so I can be home more. Family is where it’s at. This foundation Charlie told you about last night? It’s something my entire family can be proud of. And it’ll help so many other families, give their kids a shot at playing sports, at being healthy, at having somewhere to go after school and during the summers. I don’t need more money. But making more money lets me help more families. So this isn’t bribery, or blackmail. It’s a guy who’d like to make a difference in the world asking for a favor that only you can give.”

  “So it’s guilt
.”

  “The attention goes away after a while. In six months, nobody will even remember this.”

  “Exactly. So you can wait six months and then launch your foundation.”

  “It’s not that simple.” He leans forward, hands dangling between his knees, a plea lingering deep in his eyes. “This foundation isn’t just mine. I’m dragging Vaughn Crawford’s name through the mud too for being associated with me, and if I think I do good for the world, I’m nothing compared to him. This is a step up for me. And yeah, you can say I’m doing this to save face and keep selling clothes. You could. But if my businesses tank, if I walk away and let it all die, there are hundreds of people who’ll lose their jobs. Hundreds of families suffering. I don’t sew the clothes. Marketing is a hell of a lot more than me smiling for a camera. Hell, I don’t even design anything. I just put my mark on the things I like and would want to wear, and we buy the rights from the designers who couldn’t make a fraction of what they make if I didn’t put my mark on it. It’s not just about launching a foundation. It’s about saving hundreds of people’s jobs too.”

  I sink back in my chair and pull my knees to my chest. “That’s really not fair.”

  “We announce the foundation in less than two weeks. And if I don’t fix my image yesterday, Vaughn’s out, and the whole thing dies, because we need both of us in this to make it work. You’re my best shot. With the reaction to the video last night, you’re my only shot.”

  I’m his only shot.

  I open my mouth, but instead of a rational, well-thought-out argument why this is a terrible idea, I say, “Oh, shit.”

  Because my back gate just opened.

  And a potbellied pig in a tutu on a leash just stuck her head in.

  No, we’re not in an alternate dimension.

  Or the circus.

  Nope.

  That potbellied, tutu-ed pig means one thing.

  My parents have arrived.

  Twelve

  Beck

  Sarah bolts to her feet so fast my brain gets whiplash. “What—” I start, but she grabs me by the arm and shrieks, “Inside!” so desperately that I don’t think, I just move.