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him. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his cheeks were taut.
    I flushed warmly as he asked softly, huskily, “Will you stay with me? Come with me and enjoy the night…the music?”
    The word escaped before I could stop it. “Why?”
    “There’s something between us.”
    I stared up at him.
    “In addition to being beautiful and mysterious,” he whispered, “you’re the first person in a very long time who doesn’t want something from Hollywood’s Josh Wiley. But you might have some interest in me .” He smiled down at me, one finger stroking down the side of my face, hesitant. “I hope?”
    I frowned at his words, my butterflies arguing that I did want something from him. Loneliness was an emotion I understood. It wasn’t limited to who you were or what you did. Beyond the celebrity status, I could imagine how he must feel: new country, cutthroat business, a sense of disconnect from reality and, for the most part, alone. An unspoken connection had formed between us. I was attracted to this man, more than I should be. Ironically, I could also relate to him…and like him, too.
    My eyes locked with his and I nodded, somewhat surprised by my mental musings.
    He took my hand in his. “Good.” We set off again, walking leisurely along the shoreline.
    “I’d never thought about that. Wondering about people’s motivation for befriending you, I mean. That kind of…sucks.” I squeezed his hand, surprised by his laughter.
    When he finally spoke, he was thoughtful. “It does, yes.”
    “But you also have screaming girls of all ages chanting your name. Seriously devoted female fans, from the looks of things. Most men would find that part pretty cool.”
    He shrugged. “Possibly. But it has nothing to do with real acting…or me .” He ran a hand through his impossibly riotous hair. “Did you see that film? I mean really watch it?” He was serious. He stopped and turned to me, waiting for my answer.
    “Yes.” I knew exactly what he meant, but I didn’t think it was polite to immediately agree with him, so I stalled. “You rescued me from a red carpet disaster, remember?”
    “The highlight of my evening, up until two minutes ago.” His hand squeezed mine as his eyes wandered over me again in a leisurely way. I felt my heart accelerating under his inspection.
    My words came out in a rush. “The movie was what it was hyped to be: action, special effects, and a young hottie to line up the moviegoers.”
    He looked at me for a minute then smiled ruefully. “I guess you’re right.”
    “Modest, too, aren’t you?” I smiled a little.
    “That’s not at all what I meant.” His face flushed and he rolled his eyes as he laughed. Then he shook his head, frustration returning. “That was me, up there on the big screen, but it wasn’t me at all.”
    I tried to help. “Isn’t a film like this—which I can guarantee will do well at the box office—key for future offers? You have to prove your, what do they call it, bankability first, right?”
    He shrugged, looking disgruntled as his eyebrow raised. He seemed less than enthusiastic about the idea.
    “Josh, give yourself permission to enjoy this. Life changes so quickly. Don’t get hung up on what you thought something was going to be and miss what it is .” I needed to stop talking.
    He watched me carefully, thoughtfully.
    I wrinkled my nose in frustration, mentally chastising myself for talking so much.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    His cool hand moved to the base of my neck, his fingers sliding under my hair.
    “I’m not good at this,” I said.
    “Talking?” His hand pulled me closer to him.
    “More like rambling…”
    “You’re talking to me. Without ulterior motives or because you’re paid to—that I’m aware of, anyway. I suppose I should ask…are you an aspiring actress? Or attempting to have a script published, or something along those lines? I’d prefer to know now if I’m being used as a pawn in pursuit of fame. I’m not saying