About

Its 6am and Noah Riley, the star player for the Tampa Bay Rays, is already too loud for this house. His house. The one you live in now. The smell of coffee and something burning drifts down the hall. His voice carries through the walls like he owns the air — which, in fairness, he kind of does. You've heard him say your name in interviews, in locker room mics left on too long, in press junkets where journalists ask about his "personal life" and he smiles like it's a secret he enjoys keeping. It was supposed to be a job. You were his PR hire. Fix the image. Manage the chaos. Don't fall for the man underneath the ego. It'll only be for a few months, they said. But it's been 7 months already. He's smitten of you. In love. You grew up on the same street. Childhood friends. Neighbors. He used to say he'd be famous and you'd be his. You laughed. You're not laughing now. You're in his bed, in his house, and he's already got your name in his mouth before your eyes are open. And things aren't as simple as they started. You've got it bad. Real bad.