The Gideon Affair

Edward Ba

Public opinion labeled Gideon as a man-whore, which was almost unavoidable considering the environment. A steady parade of actresses, models, and pseudo-celebrity types walked the red carpet at his side. Though the reality was these things were part of the job and nothing more than carefully crafted photo ops, the media still insisted on squeezing every inch of copy they could. Usually by suggesting his involvement with every living, breathing female who he spoke with.

Had he bedded his fair share of available pussy? Eh, okay. When fame and fortune had come at him fast, he’d definitely indulged. After a while, though, that shit got old. At least, it did for him. He liked getting laid just as much as the next guy but recreational sex, once mastered, lost its appeal.

Unfortunately, Paige had witnessed those rookie excesses and, to his great shame, had even facilitated one or two walks of shame away from his bed.

The way she was looking at Caro told him she was edgy where her flirty assistant was concerned. He wanted to tell her she had nothing to worry about. That she was the only woman he had any interest in flirting with—but he said nothing and just kept mindlessly shoveling birthday cake into his mouth.

He wondered how she’d react if he admitted to letting her think she’d manipulated him into hiring Caro or how he’d have hired a grandfather if that would have helped. He wasn’t stupid and knew right away that Paige chose Carolyn because she hoped the girl wasn’t his type.

He smiled at Caro, who was now rambling on about current events while recalling his and Paige’s first foray into adding someone to Team Shaw. Hiring a kid fresh out of UCLA, who had mad social media skills and a knack for remembering names, seemed like such a good idea at the time. Plus, it was obvious Paige had leaned toward ‘Brad’ because he wasn’t a female. The last thing she needed was some up-and-coming starlet masquerading as a worker bee who was only interested in fucking a celebrity or getting a SAG card. Brad was a safe bet. Or so it seemed.

Three months later, he’d bleached his ass and was working the bottom for an Indie director who was burning up the benjamins on his first big-budget studio film. Brad, the shithead, simply stopped coming to work.

Quietly snickering, he remembered sniping that Brad’s asshole now hung from the smarmy director’s rearview mirror like a fucking trophy.

Their first employee had been a complete disaster. Lesson learned.

When Carolyn had turned up with her motor mouth and wild hair, which at the time was a black and purple, neither he nor Paige was instantly swayed. But Caro was relentless and had a confidence that worked in her favor.

Had an ulterior motive been at work in his decision to employ Caro? Shit. He wished he were that smart. The hire had been a desperate move to save Paige’s sanity and, probably, her health. After the freaky dynamo had taken on the day-to-day bullshit, he realized Paige would have more time to concentrate solely on him.

“Hashtag wi

And that wasn’t a bad thing as far as he was concerned.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Paige mentally grumbled. Somebody—stuff a damn sock in her mouth and make the girl shut the hell up.

Ehrmygawd, enough!

She shuffled away from her yammering assistant and the lure of the no-no dessert because falling face-first into an ice-cream cake like a hungry bear ravaging a dumpster full of food was only going to make matters worse.

Damn cramps. Stupid hormones. Ugh.

Heading for the big screen TV, she hoped for a good documentary to watch … or better yet, one of those How It’s Made or House Hunters International episodes. Both shows were great go-tos.

Ignoring everything else, she clicked the buttons on the fancy remote and shook her head.

Why was it that even with a thousand friggin’ cha

Sighing, Paige was aggressively flipping through the entertainment offerings when she felt his intense perusal— directed solely at her. A mini-explosion fried each one of her nerve endings.

Oh, great. He was using that damn x-ray vision of his that never failed to see all sorts of things she’d prefer he didn’t. Like the way her heartbeat picked up at the sound of his deeply masculine voice, or the feeling of her stomach wobbling when he was near enough to smell.

Shocking heat poured into her center until—too great to be contained—a fireball shot into her hoo-ha with tremendous force.

And just like that, Paige got her hormones under control. Rolling her eyes, she wrinkled her nose, too.

Hoo-ha? Friggin’ really? When did I become a hoo-ha sort of a girl?

Saying ‘privates’ was usually as tame as she got. Her screenwriter friend, Patsy Steele, liked to use the expression ‘nether regions.’

Vagina was too PC. Her mother was comfortable flinging around vaginal references, but that word always made Paige feel like she was in health class.

Snatch was one of those meh words. So were kitty and va-jay-jay.

A good sign you were trying too hard? Sugar basin, love tu

And then there was the big one. The capital C word. The universally cringe-worthy epithet that always garnered everyone’s attention.

Cunt. That one occupied an exclusive category all on its own.

Guaranteed to get a reaction, women tended to use the word in an entirely different context than men did. An angrily muttered, "She’s an evil cunt," set off girl-fight alarms—but a sexy grunt and a possessive, "That cunt is mine …" Well, two entirely different things. One was likely to end with a bitch slap while the other held the promise of something hotter.

But Paige was an old-fashioned girl. No need to beat around the metaphorical bush.

Ha-ha!

Pussy was fine—after all, it was somewhat hard to find the word offensive because it was used so much these days.

Hoo-ha must have been a brain zap that didn’t lessen the undeniable fact that the heat singeing her panties was a direct result of his nearness communicating directly with her pussy.

Yep. That was what I said. Paige snickered.

Being around the man when he was in one of his watchful moods tested, tempted, and tantalized. Precisely why she’d become adept at shutting off her response to the solid wall of muscle with the know-it-all smirk. She didn't need the chronic horniness that defined her personal life to get the better of her.

Dropping the useless remote control, she heard a mumbled, “Shit,” and turned with a quizzical look, startled to find him staring at her with an expression she’d never seen before. What was that all about?

Carolyn was rambling on, no doubt having something to do with how awesomely fabulous and awesomely awesome Gideon was. She was a broken record on his so-called awesomeness. The word was starting to make Paige grind her teeth whenever she heard it.

Dammit. She was reacting like a bitch, and while she thought of herself as being many things, classic bitch wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t her style. Besides, the woman-as-bitch stereotype was old and stale despite the glut of reality shows celebrating the look-at-me art of female bitchiness. She liked to think she was far more clever than that. Paige’s resting bitch face resembled bored tolerance squared, though most on the receiving end wouldn’t even know what that expression meant.