His Rock

By Ashlee Price

"Lena Hunt, you'll be my wife for a week."

 

Being married to a celebrity may sound like a dream come true but it was never mine. Yet by some crazy twist of fate and a reality show, here I am, wife to recently retired Olympic swimmer Riley Boyle. Flawless physique and crazy rich. I have to be careful though, because at the end of the week, this will all be over. That's how the show goes. Losing my virginity or my heart wasn't in the script. Oh, and neither was carrying his child. But I guess fate has a way of writing its own stories.

 

And it looks like my story as Mrs. Boyle is just beginning…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashlee Price
• Release date: Dec 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223733348

Book preview

Chapter One

Riley

I take off my shirt before heading to the edge of the pool. The breeze blows against my sweat-coated skin. The cyan surface of the water glitters under the afternoon sunlight seeping through the glass panels of the ceiling above. The smell of chlorine drifts up to my nostrils.

As I stretch the muscles of my shoulders, my thoughts wander to my childhood, when I first started swimming. Back then, I only did it because the water felt nice. Then I started doing it for other things—for records, for medals. Still, the anticipation of being in the water remains. Each time I stand at the edge of the pool, excitement ripples through my veins. It doesn't matter if there's no one watching, if there's no one swimming in the next lane. It's always been about me and the water.

Always.

I slip my goggles over my eyes and prepare to take the plunge. But my phone rings. I almost ignore it, but then I remember I'm expecting a call.

With a frown, I backtrack to the table where I've left my phone and my water bottle. I pick up the phone and lift my goggles over my swim cap to glance at the screen.

The call is from Mickey, my stepmother. I wasn't expecting it to be her, but I guess I should have been. I'm sure she's heard about what I've done by now.

I tap the screen and hold the phone to my ear. Mickey.

Riley, please don't tell me you're really going to be on that stupid show.

Her disappointment travels clearly over the line. I can imagine her with her painted eyebrows bunched up in the middle of her forehead, her crimson lips in a pout and her French manicured nails tapping on the surface nearest her. She's probably at her book club, trying to pass herself off as smart even though she can hardly spell my name, or at Bergdorf Goodman, buying another pair of Jimmy Choo shoes that look just like the ones she already has just so she can have something new on her Instagram account to make her friends blush in envy, or at some fundraiser, donating some of my father's money so she won't feel so guilty about spending the rest of it.

I place my other hand on my hip. Fine. I won't tell you.

Why, you— She stops to draw a deep breath, confirming my suspicion that she isn't alone. When she speaks again, she sounds calmer. Your father isn't going to like this.

And what he thinks is all Mickey ever cares about.

Of course not, I agree. When did he ever like anything I did?

You're just doing this to spite us, aren't you?

I lean on the table. Sorry to disappoint you, Mickey, but believe it or not, I have better things to do than crush your expectations.

Why are you doing this, then? Hmm?

I shrug. For fun.

She snorts.

Also because an old friend called in a favor.

Fine, then. Have your fun. Just don't forget your agreement with your father.

I haven't.

Like I ever could. A man on death row does not forget the date of his upcoming execution.

There's still a month before my birthday. Filming for the show will be over way before then.

It better. I'm throwing you a grand birthday party.

Is that what she's worried about?

I frown. To celebrate the beginning of the end of my life? How thoughtful.

Oh, grow up, Riley, Mickey admonishes. And while you're at it, why don't you grow a new pair of balls, because the ones you have seem to have withered from the chlorine.

On that insult, she ends the call.

I let it go as I put down my phone. She may be a billionaire's wife now, but once a bitch, always a bitch.

But man, I wish she didn't nag so much.

I put her words behind me as I put my goggles back on. Then I jump into the pool.

As the water swallows me whole, the rest of the world melts away. All I can see is blue. All I can feel is the cold caress against my skin. As I break the surface, my arms and legs begin to move on their own, each stroke and kick propelling me forward. I lose myself to the rhythm, to the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

This is the thrill my body craves for. This is what I've trained it for.

My hands touch marble and I turn, increasing my speed on the second lap. My muscles burn fuel. My lungs savor every gasp of air.

When my fingertips graze the cold tiles a second time, I stop and straighten up. The soles of my feet fall flat against the bottom. For a moment, I just stand there with my shoulders rising and falling, my mouth gaping as I catch my breath. Then I pull off my goggles and my cap.

I'm about to hoist myself up when I see a hand in front of me. I lift my head and see a friendly face.

What are you doing here, Jer? I ask him even as I grip his hand, letting him pull me out of the water which seems hesitant to let me go. Drops of water cling to my Speedo swim trunks and trickle down my leg.

Jeremiah Lawrence gives me that grin I've known since sixth grade. Sure you don't have a clue?

As I dry myself off, I realize I do.

Judy sent you, didn't she?

Well, you know my little sister's nuts about you.

That's a mild way of putting it. And if she weren't Jerry's younger sister, I would have shaken her off a long time ago.

And we all know you're nuts about her, I remark as I grab my water bottle.

Jerry just shrugs.

So she's heard I'm going to be on TV? I lift the bottle to my lips.

Man, you've been on TV a hundred times. If that was all there was, she wouldn't be worried. But you on a reality show? And one where you have to get married to boot? What's gotten into you?

I take a final gulp of water and set my bottle down. You of all people should understand. Remember the deal I made with my old man?

He nods. You're free to swim and do what you want until you turn 28, when you have to do what your father wants, which is basically to help out in the family company and settle down with a respectable woman.

Respectable meaning someone of his choosing.

Exactly. I'm turning 28 soon, so this is my last taste of freedom.

I get that. But getting married?

I sit down on a lounge chair. It's only for a week. I'll get a divorce on the last day.

His eyes narrow. Are you sure?

Positive.

He nods. Judy will be glad to hear that.

I'm sure she will. She already thinks we're married. And the problem is, since her family and mine are close, it's a possibility. In fact, I've heard Mickey say on more than one occasion that Judy Lawrence should be my wife. Not if I can help it, though of course I can't say that to Jerry out loud.

But you're going to pretend to be in love with your wife, right?

Yeah. I lift my legs up and lie down on the chair. You know, pretend I'm caring and responsible, which is basically what I do all the time.

If only people knew what a pompous ass you are. Jerry shakes his head. I seriously don't know what Judy sees in you.

Me neither.

Wait. He touches his chin. They won't show you fucking on TV, will they?

Nah. I place my arms behind my head. But that doesn't mean it won't happen when the cameras stop rolling. Every night.

I give him a wink.

Jerry gives another sigh. You're just playing around like you usually do, aren't you?

But this time, it's with a woman who won't be able to say no to me.

Like a woman has ever said no to Riley Boyle McAllister.

I smirk because it's true. And I won't have to think of any consequences because we both know it's just for one week.

God forbid you think of the consequences of your actions.

I ignore that. Besides, it's practice.

You mean you're practicing getting married to a woman someone else chose for you?

Something like that.

Jerry's eyes narrow. You're crazy.

You already know that.

He shrugs. Whatever. It's your life.

Exactly. It's the last four weeks of my life, so this is my last chance to do something completely crazy, to do something fun other than swimming. To feel alive and be myself.

I draw a deep breath as I gaze at the glass ceiling.

I sure hope they find someone really interesting.

Chapter Two

Lena

The can of soda clatters as it hits the bottom of the vending machine. I scoop it out and press it against my throbbing forehead. As the ice cold metal hits my skin, I let out a sigh.

That feels good.

It's hardly noon, and already I'm having a hectic day. I've had to run to the coffee shop two blocks away—twice—to get a bunch of lattes for the cast of the sitcom that's starting filming today. I had to pick up the dry cleaning for Matt, that director who just loves to order me around. I had to make twenty-two copies of a one-hundred-fifty-page script. And then I had to spend an hour searching for Ms. Harvey's missing contact lens because she refused to do her show without it. Talk about a crazy morning.

And I still have to go to the location of Wed For A Week this afternoon because the filming for Week 3 starts today and we have to make sure everything is ready for the wedding ceremony.

I sit on the bench and open my can of soda to take a sip.

Days like this, I wonder why I chose to work behind the scenes of the entertainment industry. I could have been a book editor doing nothing but read all day. Or a graphic artist glued to my computer. I could have worked in advertising, where I'd get to wear nice clothes and have meetings with clients over free coffee, and get paid much more. But no, I aspired to be a director. That's why I've been kissing asses and working my own off as a production assistant for the past three years.

Patience, I tell myself, especially on days like this. You'll get your break, Lena. Just hang in there.

But also on days like this, I wonder how much more I can take, or if I even know what I'm doing anymore. Am I really getting anywhere? How much longer do I have to wait to have my shot at my dream, or at least get a step closer?

I rest my head against the wall. How many more cups of coffee do I have to get before they give me a chance to sit behind the camera?

Lena! My fellow slave, Paula, calls my name as she rushes into the room. She places her hands on her knees as she pauses to catch her breath.

I turn to her with furrowed eyebrows. What is it this time?

Calm down, Paula, I tell her. I don't care what they told you. It's not the end of the world.

But it could be the end of the show, she says between gasps.

What show?

Wed For A Week. The guest who's supposed to appear this week just had an accident.

My eyebrows arch as my can of soda remains suspended an inch from my lips. You mean Riley Boyle?

I'm pretty sure he's the celebrity guest this week. In fact, some members of the crew have been looking forward to seeing him in the sizzling hot flesh—the exact words of Maggie, the makeup artist. Me? I'm just curious to know if he looks as good in a suit as he does in a pair of Speedos. And maybe keen on getting an autograph for my dad, who's been a fan of his since his first Olympic gold medal.

I guess that's not happening anymore.

Not Riley, Paula says as she straightens up. The non-celebrity, the contestant. The one who's supposed to be his wife.

Oh.

I can't remember her name, but I know all the winners were picked out of a horde of contestants a month before the show started.

What happened?

She got into a car accident just now, while on her way to the location, Paula informs me. They don't even know if she'll live.

Shit.

And the producer, Ms. Deedee, is throwing a fit.

Of course she is. This whole show was her idea, inspired by her own one-week marriage to a movie actor that ended in a ton of drama. She was the one who invited the celebrity guests and handpicked the winners who would be on the show opposite them. Not to mention she's invested more than half of her alimony into this show.

If it goes down, she goes down with it.

I'm sure she'll be able to find someone else, I say as I accompany Paula back upstairs.

I find Ms. Deedee with the rest of the crew gathered in a room. Ms. Deedee is breathing into a paper bag while the director, Kevin, speaks frantically on the phone.

I approach the producer. Ms. Deedee, are you alright?

She eyes the can of soda in my hand and grabs it, gulping it down. Do I look alright to you, Linda?

Even after all this time, she still can't get my name right. Under the circumstances, I decide to let it go.

How can I be alright? The star of my show is missing. All because that Cynthia doesn't know how to drive. And now I even have to pay her hospital bills.

So she's not even worried that Cynthia's life is in danger, huh? I sure hope the poor woman will pull through.

I pull a sheet of tissue from the box nearby and hand it to her since she seems on the verge of tears. I'm sure Kevin will find someone—

There's no time. Ms. Deedee's silver hoop earrings swing to and fro as she shakes her head. You know we have to follow the schedule or everything will be set back. And we can't just get anyone. We've already had the wedding gown made. It has to be someone who's slender, size six, at least 5'5 and—"

Suddenly, she stops. Her wide eyes stare right at me.

My eyebrows furrow. Ms. Deedee?

Her hands go to my cheeks. You.

Me?

Will you be on the show?

I blink. Is she serious?

I try to free my face from her grasp. Very funny, Ms. Deedee. I'm sure—

You're perfect. She stands up and turns to the other producer. Kevin, I found a replacement!

My jaw drops. What? She's serious?

Ms. Deedee, I can't be on the show. I shake my head as I wave my hands in front of my face. I'm a production assistant.

So you know how the show works.

Yes, but I'm part of the crew. I work behind the camera.

Some actors make good directors because they were in front of the camera first, Ms. Deedee points out.

I can't argue with that. Still...

There has to be someone else who—

Lena. She finally gets my name right as she grips my shoulders. Do you want to keep working in this industry?

Yes.

If you do me this one favor, I promise I'll return it one day, Ms. Deedee promises.

I look into her brown eyes and see her desperate plea written all over them. How can I refuse when she's looking at me like that?

I swallow. Well, I guess I could try being in front of the camera for once. Since it's a reality show, I won't have any lines to memorize. I just have to be myself.

And marry Riley Boyle.

That makes me step back and shake my head.

Riley Boyle. A former Olympic swimmer. A celebrity. A hunk. A man. I've never even had a boyfriend or a real date. How am I supposed to be the wife of a man I've never met, and on TV no less?

I'm sorry, Ms. Deedee, but I can't.

Please? She takes my hands in hers. Do this for me? For all of us?

I glance around the room and see all the faces looking at me expectantly, even Paula's.

Shit.

But my family...

You don't live with anyone, do you? Paula says.

I throw her a frown. Thanks, Paula.

My job...

I'll tell the network about it, Kevin says. You don't have to worry. You'll still have your job when the show is done. Or who knows? You might get a promotion.

A promotion?

Still...

I'm not ready to get married, I say. And call me crazy, but I think I'd like my marriage to last a lifetime, not a week.

Think of this as a rehearsal, Ms. Deedee says. You know, like it's not real.

But it is, I point out.

No. It's more like a dream that lasts for a week, Ms. Deedee says.

You'll be with Riley Boyle, Maggie pipes in. It's the chance of a lifetime. Think of all the women who'd kill to be in your shoes.

Including you.

You can do it, Lena, Paula urges with a smile.

I glance around the room once more, then let out a deep sigh. It's no use. I'm outnumbered. There's no way I can win against all of them.

Fine, I give in reluctantly. I'll do it.

Yes! Ms. Deedee wraps her arms tightly around me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

As the rest of the people in the room cheer, my eyes dart to the ceiling.

God, I sure hope I don't regret this.

Maggie pulls my arm. Let's get you ready.

~

Hours later, I stand in front of the mirror all dressed in white. Layers of beaded chiffon hang around my neck, creating a cowl that dips just low enough to reveal a teensy bit of cleavage. The same fabric covers my back, keeping the breeze off my spine. The rest of the gown is made of white silk flowing seamlessly all the way to the floor, concealing even the tips of my freshly pedicured toes peeking out of my sandals. Lace coats my arms all the way from my knuckles to my armpits.

Even my earrings are white—pearls shaped into flowers—and a white orchid is tucked into the strands of my hair, which have been swept up into an elegant braid, leaving just a few wisps to cascade over my painted cheeks. My eyelids have been dusted with golden shimmer as well, my eyelashes painted black and my lips glossed a light shade of pink.

Wow. I really look like a bride. I guess this is really happening.

Wow. Paula whistles as she enters the room. You look... stunning, Lena.

I sigh. Do I really have to do this?

She pats my shoulder. You'll be fine.

I place my hands over my arms. I feel... weird. It's like I'm dreaming, like I'm not real.

To my surprise, she pinches my arm.

Ouch! I yelp.

See, you're not dreaming, Paula says. This is all real. That's why it's called a reality show.

I sigh. I still can't believe I let you all talk me into doing this.

Relax. Paula grips my hand. Just enjoy the experience.

I'm not sure I can. My nerves are already setting in, and I can hear a voice in my head starting to enumerate all the things that could go wrong.

Just think of Riley.

Nope. I can't do that either. If I do, I'll only get more nervous. I mean, what if he doesn't like me? What if we don't get along?

Shit. I'm already thinking about him.

I shake my head and place a hand over my chest.

Breathe, Lena. Breathe.

Hey. Paula squeezes my hand. You're not alone, okay? We're here.

I look at her. She's right. No matter what happens, the crew will be there. Sure, they'll be hiding, watching me through a dozen cameras, but at least I know they're there.

I squeeze her hand in turn. Thanks, Paula.

Just then, the door opens. This time, it's Kevin who steps in.

Are you ready, Lena?

Am I? No, but I know the show has to start.

I nod. He leads me out of the trailer and to the house, a beautiful two-story house with white walls and blue doors and windows. I always thought it was a charming house. I never thought I'd get to live in it, though.

I follow Kevin to the garden where the hedge maze is. The bride is supposed to enter from one end, the groom from the other, meeting in the gazebo in the middle for the ceremony. I draw a deep breath.

You'll be fine, Kevin tells me. And I'm just glad we can finally start filming after all the problems we've had.

I say nothing. My heart is pounding now, my thoughts swimming restlessly.

This is it. This is really it.

When the camera is shoved in my face and someone asks about my thoughts, I can barely say anything. Afterwards, someone hands me a bouquet and I grip it tightly in my fingers. I start walking but I can barely feel the ground beneath my feet. Someone is leading me through the maze but I still feel lost.

After what seems an eternity, I reach the gazebo. It's draped in white lace and colorful fresh flowers. The fake judge is standing inside.

I turn my head to find myself staring into a pair of ebony eyes. I stop in my tracks. My breath catches and my heart seems to stop as well as I stare at the man across from me.

Riley Boyle.

I've seen him on TV, in the papers, online. I knew he was a hunk.

But damn, I didn't know he'd be this hot. As my eyes go over his chiseled features, my heart starts beating again. Fast. My gaze travels over his midnight blue tuxedo, taking in his broad shoulders, his slim hips, the powerful strides of those long legs. My throat goes dry and I swallow.

There's no doubt about it. Riley Boyle looks as steamy in a suit as he does in his Speedos.

The question is: Am I going to survive living seven days right next to this living, breathing, sizzling pile of concentrated muscle and testosterone?

Chapter Three

Riley

She's mine.

I've only seen my bride for a few moments, and yet I can already tell I've got her wrapped around my finger. I've seen that expression on her face many times before—that look of awe and fascination with a gleam of unabashed desire, a glint of uncontrollable lust. She's already fallen for me hook, line and sinker.

I give her my best smile and she blushes then quickly looks away.

Shy, is