“Hey, Christene. Wait up!” 
I stopped mid-step, and my heart stuttered.
That voice. I’d remember that voice anywhere. Thick. Deep. Sexy. 
It’d been months since I heard him or seen him in person. I’d viewed every movie he’d made, watched every YouTube video of his interviews, and listened in on my sister’s conversations with her boyfriend just to hear what was going on in his life. 
My pulse ticked up in tempo. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like a bass drumming on the inside of my wrists. 
I froze, took a deep breath, composed myself, and turned around ever so slowly to find Jordan Ryder—the highest-paid actor in show business, Hollywood’s hotshot, America’s it guy—staring right back at me. 
He was also Cade’s adopted brother. Yep. My sister’s boyfriend’s brother. 
He blew out a breath of smoke and then flicked his cigarette to the side. A sizzle of electric energy surged between us, just like that very first day I’d met him months ago.
I took a step forward, and as though the world had suddenly tilted on its axis, I lost my footing. In slow motion, as if I were in The Matrix, my legs gave out, and I saw the ground, the gum on the concrete, the cracks in the foundation. One knee hit the concrete before I felt a pair of strong hands reach out to steady me.
My hands fell to his hips, and I thanked the heavens above that I hadn’t totally wiped out. I thought I had been saved, saved by an angel. But just when I was about to pull myself up, my other knee gave out, and I face-planted. Not on the ground, but into his crotch.
Oh. My. God.
When I tried to push myself to a standing position, pain seared through my scalp. Because, like on an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos, I realized my perfect curls were stuck on his belt buckle.
“One second,” Jordan said.
Is he laughing?
Shit. Shit. Shit. He is.