Make It Sweet

From behind the safety of my white Jackie O. glasses, I watched Mr. Swagger draw near.

He didn’t attempt to charm with a smile or even a pleasant expression. In truth, he appeared slightly annoyed, those severely straight brows knitting together, his firm mouth tight at the corners. It didn’t dampen the effect of his hotness. At all, damn it.

If anything, I was in serious danger of tittering like a teen with a crush as he stalked up to me, stopping far enough away to be polite but close enough that I could take in the details.

His hair wasn’t black but a dark, rich brown. Blunt features that were strongly carved in the way an old master sculptor would admire. Midway down the high bridge of his nose was a bump, as though his nose had been broken at some point. There wasn’t a hint of softness in that face, except for his mouth, which was generous and could have been plush if he ever stopped pressing it in a grim line.

The true showstoppers, however, were his eyes. Oh hell, his eyes. I gaped. I couldn’t help it; they were stunning. Deep set under the angry slashes of his brows and framed by long thick lashes, his eyes were an eerie icy green.

When it came to my looks, I had been a late bloomer. In high school, because of my too-big eyes and sharp, thin face, boys had called me mouse or rabbit. I had hated it and had been uncomfortable with men for a long time. But time and acting had changed everything.

I was around gorgeous, charming men all the time. They went hand in hand with the profession. Attractiveness was simply another commodity. Even so, I had been wide eyed and gawky around men at first. But I’d never felt weak at the knees with just one look. None of them had ever struck me senseless the way this man did with his scowling eyes.

I wasn’t even sure my sudden breathless state was attraction or crumbling nerves; it wasn’t every day an insanely gorgeous guy with swagger walked up and gave you a look like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. I frankly had no idea what he was about. I was tempted to glance over my shoulder and make sure there wasn’t a camera crew filming this to put on some national let’s-fuck-with-the-celebrity show.

There was something oddly familiar about him, as though I’d seen him many times before. But that couldn’t be right. I’d remember a guy who looked like this. I’d have made a note of it in my mental diary and underlined it twice.

And then it got so much worse. Because he spoke. And sweet hot cream, the man had a voice. I felt that voice in the back of my throat, behind my knees.

“You’re Emma Maron.”

I let that rich rubble of a voice roll over me, soaking in the sheer enjoyment of listening to it, before what he said truly registered. He knew who I was.

A fan.

Disappointment tweaked. Fans were definitely out of the potential dating pool. It would be too weird and . . . why the hell was I even thinking of dating? I wasn’t here to meet someone. I was here for a relaxing getaway, to read some books, maybe sleep all day, lick my wounds in private. And all this man had done was ask a question.

One that he was waiting for me to answer. Apparently, with little patience, given that he was squinting at me like I was an unfortunate problem to solve. Which made no sense; he’d come up to me.

He shifted his weight, long thick thigh muscles moving beneath well-worn jeans. I pushed down a flush of heat and focused. Maybe the guy was embarrassed. That had to be it.

I gave him my public smile. Polite. Friendly, but not too friendly. “Yes, I’m Emma.”

His nod was perfunctory, and he started to pull out his phone. “I—”

Oh hell. He wanted a picture. It happened all the time now, and usually, I was happy to comply. Except I had just gotten off a thirteen-hour flight and was gritty and tired. Even my hair hurt. More importantly, it would attract attention. Attention I couldn’t handle on my own if people crowded me. Having lived through that sort of experience once before, I was terrified of it happening again.

“I’m afraid I don’t pose for selfies outside of controlled functions,” I cut in before his request could make things more awkward. “But I’m happy to sign something if you have a pen?”

My words froze him, his hand still in the act of tugging the phone from his jeans pocket. But then he blinked, a ghost of a bemused smile haunting the corner of his well-shaped lips. “You think I want an autograph?”

Sharp prickles of utter horror exploded along my skin.