Author: T. Gephart

The only problem was . . . Tia had never actually met him.

Eric Larsson was one of Hollywood’s hottest movie stars, rising to the top of his game and leaving a trail of disintegrated panties in his wake. Tia’s were no exception—but she wasn’t delusional. Love, marriage and happily-ever-after were not part of her fantasy; she just wanted to meet him. Just one time. One time. Confident that just seeing him in the flesh would get him out of her system.

So, with her resolve steeled, Tia set off on a quest to make it happen while avoiding her mug shot being splayed across the five o’clock news.

The journey no doubt will make for one hell of a story.

“Oh my God.” The words wheezed out of me as all the oxygen escaped from my lungs. My chest tightened like I’d been kicked right in between my ribs.There he was a few feet behind me slowly making his way toward me.

“Eric, look here.”

“Eric, this way.”

Both sides of the line screamed at him as he patiently walked from side to side, signing autographs and taking selfies. Each step he took inching him closer to where I had frozen, my eyes bulging out of my head like a complete lunatic.

There he was.

Eric Larsson, right in front of me.

And not even internet stalking could have prepared me for what he looked like in real life.

Breathtaking.

So handsome he almost didn’t seem real, and as much as I tried I couldn’t stop staring.

Say something my mouth begged as my brain continued on its mental vacation. My eyes scanned every inch of his body like it was planning to build a 3-D replica.

Holy hell he was wearing the absolute fuck out of that suit. Every inch of the fabric curling around his delicious body like its life depended on it. And believe me, even though he was covered from head to toe in tailored Tom Ford perfection—I’d seen photos of him in this particular suit before—it did nothing to hide how obscenely hot he was.

My heart thumped loudly as he took another step closer, his eyes remaining on the crowd.

“Larsson.”

It rang out clear despite the noise around us. It took me a minute to realize that while my brain had stalled, my mouth hadn’t suffered the same fate. My lips still open as his name left them.

Who the hell yells out his last name? I panicked, unable to tear my eyes from him as his head lifted and his eyes settled on me.

Dear. Lord. In. Heaven. And. All. The. Saints.

Eric Larsson was looking at me.

At me.

At ME!

His brow lifted in acknowledgement as his lips curled, momentarily blinding me as he flashed his trademark smile.

Well, if that wasn’t an invitation, I didn’t know what was.

So, even though I was struggling to breathe—my ability to remain upright also not guaranteed—my feet moved me closer toward him. My internal pep talk worked overtime as I reminded myself we were on a mission. Two minutes of eye contact, conversation . . . and something about me finding out what an asshole he was.

“Hi.” The best I could do given the circumstances.

Intellectually I knew the man was tall. I mean, in my head I figured I knew what six-foot-four looked like. But as I lifted my eyes, it didn’t come close to where I should be looking, my gaze hitting his chin before I tilted my head even higher.

“Hi,” he responded, the single word sent a shiver down my spine as he unleashed another blinding smile.

Those eyes were something else. The clearest blue I had ever seen, and though I knew it wasn’t possible it seemed like they illuminated from the inside out. Like magical orbs, the weight of their stare hypnotized me, pulling me in closer like a force field. I couldn’t have looked away if I’d tried. Not that I tried, and not that I wanted to.

And oh Lord have mercy, did he smell good. Mouthwatering. Ridiculous that it would even get a mention given I already had those eyes, his face and his delectable couture-wrapped body to contend with. Yet there was his scent wafting up my nose uninvited. A sadistic mix of sexy, clean and masculine—probably Calvin Klein—overwhelmed me as I fought the urge to bury my head in his neck and inhale him like a line of cocaine.

Say something you dumbass. My mouth begged as my hand, completely of its own accord, reached out and rested on his arm.

Holy. Freaking. Shit. I. Was. Touching. Him.

Do not moan, I reminded myself.

“Congratulations on the movie.” Words poured out of my mouth, thankfully in a sequence that made sense, as my fingers struggled not to caress the fabric of his suit. My fingers didn’t listen, slowly stroking in small—slightly inappropriate and rather suggestive—circles.

Wow, this is a really, really nice suit.