Virginal Headlines: Love Between The Headlines Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people-living or dead, real locales is entirely coincidental and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  VIRGINAL HEADLINES © 2019

  by: Candace Knoebel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or won it in an author/publisher contest, this book has been pirated. Please delete and support the author by purchasing the ebook from one of its many distributors.

  Interior book design:

  Designs By Sonya Loveday

  Edited by Cynthia Shepp

  ISBN: 9781095395721

  ASIN: B07QNZHGRN

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

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  About the Author

  Also by Candace Knoebel

  What in The Hell Just Happened?

  The line I was trapped in snaked clear around the building.

  It wasn’t unusual for this time of morning, when dawn’s chill clung to the air that would soon give way to the sweltering heat that choked New York in the summer.

  My nose lifted, inhaling the doughy scent of bagels drifting from the shop door jammed open by the slew of bodies vying to get in. I didn’t particularly like to wait in lines for bread—or anywhere that required being within inches of another human being for that matter—but this morning was different.

  I was trying to be different.

  Possibility and hope played through the crisp breeze, wrapping around me in a protective shell. Today was the beginning of seeing my dreams come to fruition. When I started a new job that would surely change my life.

  The sole reason I decided to go against my introvert ways and brave the morning rush of impatient, caffeine-inebriated New Yorkers—was to bring bagels to my new coworkers. Something I’d been doing since childhood, when Mom would bake cookies for me to take in to class on the first day of school.

  She called it a thoughtful gesture. I called it bribery.

  Taking a step forward when the line moved, I gazed up from my Kindle to the back of the man’s neck in front of me. Words were inked across his tanned skin in dark, narrow letters—Life is short, break the rules.

  Break the rules… I thought. Oh, how I craved to be as free-spirited. To move against the grain of what was expected of me. But that wasn’t in my blood.

  It wasn’t safe.

  I fastened my gaze to my Kindle. Back to the words carrying me into a foreign land with hopes of finding my hero. I didn’t go anywhere without it. Without a plausible escape from the ruckus of the New York subway. I didn’t people very well. In fact, I didn’t people at all. I gladly attributed that gift to my four sisters who could make friends with anyone… even Scrooge.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like people. No. It was that I never knew what to say. In fact, I preferred to not say anything, which was classically mislabeled as being bitchy or uppity… a brand I’ve carried since my teen years.

  The truth was, I knew I wasn’t easy to get to know. I welcomed silence just like I welcomed rain. I kept my personal bubble close, only giving a rare few access to the inside. I was often the girl found in the corner of the room during social events, hoping someone would be brave enough to speak to me, because I could never find that bravery. I listened deeply when people spoke. Never uttered a word I didn’t mean. Observed those around me, only to paint them with words on my blog or in my diary. Words I never seemed to find in their presence. Something I hoped my new job would bring out in me.

  One step at a time.

  Through my peripheral, I noticed the line moving forward again and took a few steps. The door was just inches away, the scent playfully weaving in and out of the breeze. My heart quickened in pace as the heroine on my Kindle ran through the forest, trying to avoid her capturers. I knew this was going to happen, and I could almost tell something thrilling would come next. Maybe even the introduction of her hero.

  The words pummeled through my mind, a dizzying dance of literature and imagination, only to disappear the next moment when a hard slam of a body rammed into the side of me.

  “Shit! I’m sorry.”

  The man’s words barely registered past the sound of my Kindle colliding with the sidewalk, the queasy, irrefutable sound of plastic and concrete meeting together. There was no doubt it was broken. The words on it lost to me until it could be replaced. I started to bend, reaching for it before the onset of footsteps could damage it farther.

  “Here… let me…”

  A sharp pain lanced my forehead as it bumped against his on the way down to my Kindle. What the hell was it with this guy?

  “I wasn’t paying attention.” A short-lived, nervous chuckle. “One of those mornings, you know?”

  I glanced up from my crouch on the sidewalk. All my thoughts stilled, ramming one into the other in a traffic jam of cosmic proportions. He had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever connected with. Silver streaks slashing through topaz irises, like lightning on a warm summer night. Alarming and encompassing. Dangerous. Framed by thick, full lashes. Lashes women spent hundreds of dollars to maintain.

  And then realization crashed into me like a freight train at high speed.

  Oh my God.

  Grayson Pierce.

  I was looking into Grayson Pierce’s eyes.

  As in, New York’s notorious player. America’s heartthrob. The bad boy every girl loved to hate but still wanted to date. Heir to a football dynasty. Record holder for most models dated.

  Even his skin shone as if it were made of gold.

  He was the story one couldn’t help but read. The headline that could always be counted on. Grayson Pierce—America’s Finest Bad Boy. Grayson Pierce—Will He Ever Settle Down? Grayson Pierce—The Arson Scandal of the Year.

  Everyone wanted a piece of him. No one could ever get close to him.

  Yet, I was within inches.

  I was struck dumb.

  For years, I followed his story through the tabloids when he first broke onto the scene through his Instagram account that had flourished into a top-tier modeling contract. It was his face that had the world’s attention. The chiseled, perfect smile that held the wattage of a million light bulbs. The jawline that was so sharp it could slice through diamonds. Boyish, yet sexy, with just the right amount of sin. A taunting always pushing through his eyes. He became the face of men’s clothes lines. Colognes. Shoes. He even dabbled in television and movies.

  He was an
empire in and of itself.

  Grayson Pierce.

  It wasn’t until his reputation for dating women took a hard left that the tabloids turned sour against him. He’d been dubbed the serial dater. Woman after woman tried to break his three-date policy. And woman after woman found themselves in the tabloids with tears streaming down their face as he paraded a new dalliance.

  But even all that was shadowed by the incident. A trope that ended with him losing his contract and disappearing for two years.

  Until about a year ago, when he released a memoir hoping to clear his name. Branding him as the reformed bad-boy-turned-writer, which landed a job with Stud—a leading blog geared toward men. He became a journalist, a glove that seemed to fit him well.

  And he’d just freaking bumped into me.

  His knuckles brushed against mine when he handed over my Kindle, an unfamiliar zapping sensation spreading through my skin, sinking into every cell. A sensation I’d read about countless times in hundreds of romance novels, and always managed to gag at the fictionality of it.

  It was real, guys.

  It was freaking real.

  “I’m really sorry about this. I can replace it for you. It was my fault.” His voice was deep and rich, like warmed maple, sending a sugar high to my insides. His dark hair had a boyish flare to it, wispy and unruly with just the right amount of control. How did he do that? How did he make bed head look sexy? If I rolled out of bed with just a simple fingering through my hair, I’d emerge looking as if I’d plugged my finger into a light socket. But not him.

  My eyes grazed over him. The simple white t-shirt that did its best to stand up to the expanse of pectoral glory straining against cotton fibers. The casual way his sleeves were rolled up on the sides, exposing a braiding of tendon and muscle I could stare at all day long. The words and pictures tattooed across his forearms.

  Up and up my gaze went, his height and energy inexplicably towering over my tiny five-foot-two frame, until it came to rest on his luscious, scandalous lips quipped with a smirk.

  That same infamous smirk that launched a thousand thrown panties in his direction.

  My words stammered in my throat like tiny, inexperienced soldiers. “I… uh… yes.” Absently, I knuckled my glasses up the bridge of my nose, blinking at his features. They were so much… more in person. Encompassing. Enrapturing. And I had half a mind to forget about my personal bubble and cross over into his.

  A soft chuckle breezed through his nose. Clearly, he’d dealt with this sort of reaction a time or two. With an extended hand he said, “Name is Grayson. And you are?”

  My knees gave way a little at his smile, my tongue twisted and inflamed. It was only a brief grin, fleeting and superficial, but it didn’t stop me from appreciating it any less. Didn’t keep the warmth from flaring behind my cheeks so hot I feared it would imprint.

  I shifted my stance… a feeble attempt at masking my reaction. Tried to string silly letters together into the shape of my name. Vowels and consonants that suddenly didn’t make sense.

  “Primrose.” The name shot out of my mouth like an unfledged cannonball, followed by an embarrassing flutter of uneasy laughter. “Sorry.” Breathe. “Prim,” I said, this time with better control. “That’s what everyone calls me. Well, unless you’re my grandma. She has to use the entire name. Primrose Marie Amberly,” I mimicked in my best grandma tone, digging myself an early grave.

  His eyes widened just a smidgen, and I prayed the curve to his lips was out of humor and not something more embarrassing.

  “Not that you look like a grandma or anything,” I quickly added. Shit. “I just meant—”

  That’s right. Stammer in front of Grayson Pierce like a bumbling idiot. Just kill me right here. Spread aside the dirt and shove me in.

  Sweat rose on the insides of my palms. I took in an encouraging breath, deep and long, trying to calm my scattered thoughts. Standing in front of him felt like being plugged in. All lights on in the house.

  His grin stretched up to his eyes, glimmering and dangerous.

  James Dean. That’s where I knew the quote from. He is a walking, breathing James Dean.

  “Prim,” he said, as if testing out the name. Tasting it.

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The way my name rolled off his tongue, like velvet and intimacy. The way his baritone voice sank in between every letter. Every vowel.

  “Next,” I heard someone behind the counter yell.

  We were already at the door. I should have been lured by the intoxicating scent of fresh bread, but that’s not what my brain chose to pick up on. It was him. The leathery citrus musk. It tingled the hairs on my arm awake. Made me want to grab ahold of him for a good strong whiff.

  There was no denying the beauty that was Grayson Pierce. It radiated off him with an ease only a rare few had in life. It was his proverbial silver spoon. His birthright. His entire being.

  “Here, you go first.” He stepped to the side so I could move past him. Every unclosed millimeter between us pulsed with a heady electricity I didn’t understand. My brain told my feet to move, but my feet weren’t listening. I was fastened still. Cemented in front of him with a dopey expression to my lips.

  Sincerity. It was the sincerity in his eyes that snapped me awake. Or maybe his chuckle at my lack of words.

  “Oh, yes! Thank you.” I stepped past.

  Turning my attention to the boards overhead, I tried to regain focus. If that were even possible as a hushed murmur fell over the small shop. Realization awakening through the sudden snapping of pictures. Whispers moving like a wave over the jammed space.

  Grayson Pierce was there, in the flesh, and everyone now knew it.

  I blinked away the fevered voices as I trained my eyes on the boards. There were a few options to choose from as far as bagels, but a plethora of spreads and toppings. I chose two sweet, two savory, and regular cream cheese with plain bagels. One couldn’t go wrong with the original.

  When the order was complete, I gave a small smile to Grayson who had his arm around a young woman, smiling toward her camera as she took a selfie, then headed to the other counter to pay. Felt a small pang of sympathy for him as he was passed to the next person who wanted a picture with him, still unable to place his order.

  What kind of life is that? I thought as I tucked myself into a small corner where I could finally catch my breath away from other people. It gave me time to gather my thoughts and assess the damage to my Kindle. A crack splintered down the middle, spreading like tiny veins along the side. Colors pushed behind the glass, but no words. My stomach rolled. That was a solid hundred I didn’t have to spend.

  Fuck.

  After slipping it into my bag, I fixed my gaze on the floor where I’d be safe, holding my receipt with the order number tightly. As long as I didn’t make eye contact, I wouldn’t be bothered. But that didn’t seem to apply to Grayson, because the next thing I knew, a pair of black leather boots entered my frame of vision.

  “Here.” His voice is light and airy.

  He held a card out to me.

  “It’s my business card. I wrote my cell phone number on the back. If you want, I can meet you later today at the Amazon store to replace the Kindle for you.”

  “You really don’t have—”

  His hand closed over mine, stealing away all my brain cells. “Please, Prim. I insist.”

  “Order number forty-two!”

  I couldn’t pull my attention away from his hand on mine. From the sudden rush of blood pressing against the surface of my skin. From how weak my knees were in this man’s presence. His beauty was unnatural. Radiant. Devilish. I was only an awkward kind of pretty. It had taken me twenty-three years to grow into my features.

  “Order number forty-two!”

  Grayson pulled the receipt from my other hand. “Looks like that’s you.”

  My stupid brain was too frazzled to come up with anything other than, “R-right.” I hurried past him to the counter, then took the bag
s the lady offered me, only to bump right back into Grayson when I spun around.

  This time, he caught me before the bag could drop.

  “Jesus… I’m sorry,” I rushed out, pulling the bagels to my chest as Grayson slowly let go of me. “I just can’t seem to get right on my feet this morning. Maybe I had one cup too many in the coffee department. I swear I’m not normally like this.”

  Lie.

  My face was listed under the word awkward in the dictionary.

  His laughter peppered the air with a lightheartedness, a humored glimmer in his gaze. “I could say the same for myself, but that would be a lie. Half the time, I’m a mess. One too many thoughts racing around in the old brain.” He pointed to his head for added measure. “At least you can blame it on the asshole who clumsily broke your Kindle.”

  There it was… this sincerity that didn’t make sense. That didn’t fit with everything I’d read about Grayson Pierce. He was the guy who broke hearts… not the guy who worried over a broken Kindle. The guy who had his face plastered on thousands of billboards… not the guy who was looking at me in a such a way my face felt pressed beneath a hot iron.

  I pulled back. Thoughts pinged clumsily around the inside of my skull, like a bad game of pinball.

  Something shifted in his gaze, the sharpness of an idea forming. “Do you want to maybe… I don’t know… grab something to eat later? I mean, after we get your Kindle sorted out of course.”

  “You’re asking me?” It was a stupid question. Of course he was.

  His chuckle confirmed that notion. “Yes, Prim. You.”