Page 94 of Playboy Pitcher

“Yes, Willow, the truth. About what you’re hiding. You know, the one you keep promising to tell me later. Well, it’s later, and I’m cashing in.”

She draws in a sharp breath. “Okay, you win. I’m asking you to leap, it’s only fair I do the same.” Another knock on the door signals our time is up. Glancing up at me, she nods in defeat. “Come to my father’s estate tonight. Eight o’clock. There’s someone you need to meet.”

* * *

I never knew ten minutes could last for an eternity.

With two minutes left in the live broadcast, I’m sweating my ass off underneath all the five-thousand-megawatt lights burning holes in my retinas. As anticipated, Whitney Walsh is a bitch, but every time she veers off course, Willow steers her back in her lane like a pro.

Until she goes for the jugular.

“Well, you two certainly seem very enamored with each other. Such a cute couple. Aren’t they a cute couple, folks?” She gestures toward the studio audience for applause or validation or whatever egomaniacs need to survive.

Like trained seals, the crowd hoots and hollers. Willow blushes while all I want to do is kick this bitch’s chair out from under her.

“But even the cutest kittens have claws, am I right?” she adds, and the crowd goes wild again.

Immediately, my defenses go up. I don’t like where this is going.

“Ben,” she says, turning that plastic smile my way. “I believe there’s a video online of an altercation between you and Drake Prescott that ends in your arrest. Care to explain what prompted that? A little birdie chirped in my ear that Drake and Willow had a pretty steamy thing going once upon a time.”

Willow tries to redirect the conversation, but I cut her off. “The matter has been settled out of court, Whitney, so it’s not a subject I’m legally allowed to discuss.”

She offers a tiny smirk. “Duly noted. Okay, let’s see how well you two really know each other. Ben, what’s one sentimental thing no one knows about Willow?”

Fuck.

I try to remain calm while searching for something to say that doesn’t involve sex. As the seconds tick, my blood pressure spikes to damn near stroke level. I’m about to have a panic attack on national television when Willow grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. Glancing down, my eye catches on the wilted rose tattooed on the inside of her wrist, and I smile.

“Willow is a talented artist in her own right, but she has this amazing tattoo on her back. It’s a compass on top of a bunch of spilled watercolors.” I squeeze her hand back. “It’s perfectly chaotic, just like her.” Willow blushes again as the audience swoons. “Anyway, at the bottom of the tattoo are the words ‘not all who wander are lost.’”

For once, Whitney Walsh’s resting bitch face softens. “Sounds beautiful. Does it have any special meaning?”

“It means things are not always as they seem. Some people aren’t lost at all; they’re just…” I pause, gazing at Willow with new eyes as the words click. “Searching for freedom.”

Willow’s eyes glisten, an entire battlefield of emotion playing out on her face.

“What about you, Willow?” Whitney prods, breaking the moment. “Is there anything sentimental about Ben?”

“He bakes when he’s stressed,” she says, grinning as I wince. “His sister taught him how to do it when they were young.”

Yep, I’ll never live this one down.

“Have you tasted any of his creations?”

She nods, biting her lip seconds before that bright grin turns devilishly wicked. “His lemon blueberry trifle is a mind-blowing experience.”

Willow and I lock gazes, a wave of blistering heat passing between us at the memory.

“Mmhmm,” Whitney muses, staring at Willow’s left hand. “Benson, you’re a professional athlete with a multi-million-dollar contract. No ring?”

Willow and I both freeze, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. “It’s being made,” I hold her stare. “Especially for her.”

The crowd swoons again, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

After a few more pointless questions and meaningless well-wishes, Whitney Walsh bids us farewell, and I finally get away from those damn lights and out from under a microscope.

As we make our way down to the lobby, Willow turns a narrowed gaze up at me. “What are you smiling about?”