The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,60

of it. I watched him out of the corner of my eye and kept my mouth shut, even when he put on a horrible country station and started nodding his head to the beat. When he began to sing, I broke my self-imposed vow of silence. “Please don’t.”

"Aw, come on. This is Sturgill Simpson." He grinned at me, one hand resting on the wheel, the other on the shift knob, and he was almost believable as a country boy. I resisted the urge to take a picture because a shirtless Cash with the grin and the look he was giving me… the thing would go viral. Especially on my feed, with my followers. And, oh shit. I patted down my pockets, then glanced into the floorboard.

“What?”

"I don't have my phone." I groaned. "I left it in the kitchen." Four minutes until my call with Michelle. She’d rail me for missing it. I glanced in the side mirror and wondered if anyone was following us.

“Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

“The coffee better be good,” I remarked tartly, watching as we turned down a quiet side street.

“It’s good.” He spun the wheel to the left and navigated a tight turn. “Not as good as my singing but good.”

I swallowed a sarcastic remark because we were at a new set of gates, and I knew this house. I'd driven past here a dozen times, tucked in the safety of my car, staring out the window in hopes of seeing him.

He hit a button on his visor, and the gates parted, the engraved wood face tucking into a sleek white wall that encompassed the entire lot. Putting a finger to his mouth in a stay silent gesture, he pulled down the drive toward his home.

67

#thisEmmaBlanton

CASH

I didn't really have a plan. I woke up that morning and wanted more of her. Saw her in the kitchen and wanted to kiss her good morning. Got irritated when she blew me off. Felt like smashing a camera. Got out of there instead. Liked the look of her sitting in my front seat, that smile on her face. Didn't want to go somewhere where the paparazzi would find us, or people would want selfies with us, or where we'd be stuck in one more conversation where we couldn't really say what needed to be said.

Also, she wasn’t wearing shoes—a fact that didn’t seem to concern her when paired against the more panic-inducing realization that her phone was also missing.

So, needing a barefoot-friendly spot with excellent breakfast and privacy, I brought her here. I parked the Defender on the far side of the drive, closed the front gate, and pointed her toward the front door. I armed the alarm and let out the dogs and found her in front of my coffee pot, a filter in hand, looking like she belonged there and shit. How was this Emma Blanton? How was she peeking shyly up at me and undoing the top of my bag of coffee grounds and asking if I had any almond creamer?

My bedroom was less than fifty feet away. Down that hall and through the open door was my bed. The maids came the day after I left for the mansion, so the sheets were clean, the down comforter plumped, and I could have her naked and underneath five-thousand-thread-count sheets before that coffee finished brewing.

Except that this wasn't another girl from the Valley. This was her. Sharpest tongue in Hollywood, most intoxicating smile in California and a gaff through my heart since 2015.

And, if what she said yesterday was true, she’s a virgin. I was still having trouble wrapping my head around that because the last thing I needed was another reason to want Emma Blanton.

"Wow." Emma's voice was muffled, and I looked over to see her fist-deep in a handful of Peanut's hair. "Now I know why you keep them a secret." She kissed the top of the dog's head and sat down on the kitchen floor, accepting a face-cleaning welcome from Dot. "It's because they're ugly."

I opened the fridge and found the almond milk, then set it on the table. "Easy. Their feelings are easily hurt."

She laughed and tugged on Peanut's ears, scratching behind them as her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth. "Are these warts?" She parted the thick nape of hair and peered at her scalp.

“They are warts. And highly infectious,” I warned. “Don’t touch your face.”

“Ha.” She leaned forward and kissed Dot on the end of her wet snout.

"So, you'll