“Darren,” Leah said brightly. “Leah Davies, Head of Leah Davies PR. I’ve got someone here you should meet. This is Emma Whitehart, author extraordinaire.” Then she looked at Emma with the innocence of a baby angel. “And Emma, this is Darren Cole. But maybe you already knew that.”
Emma stared at her, body completely frozen, as if standing very, very still would somehow get her out of this. It was unlikely. An unprepared, unexpected conversation with her celebrity crush of ten years would hardly be less awkward if she treated him like a T-Rex.
She aimed an icy smile at Leah, the kind meant to signal that she was going to kill her in her sleep for this. Or maybe throw her favorite pair of shoes off the Coronado Bridge.
Leah answered with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, which Emma interpreted as:Noted. But get your priorities straight.
Fair point.
Because Darren Cole was still standing right there.
Emma swallowed, shot Leah one last eye-dagger, and finally looked up at him.
Something jolted in her chest as she realized how close he was standing. He was wearing a soft black blazer over a charcoal T-shirt, sleeves pushed up. Casually elegant in the way only people with unfair genetics could pull off. His hair was slightly messy, as if he’d just run a hand through it. And his eyes—God. Even darker than she’d expected. Warm. Attentive. And entirely focused on her.
Everything else disappeared. The lights, the music, the darkening sky. For a heartbeat, nothing existed but those eyes.
“Author?” he said, tilting his head. The British lilt made the single word sound almost like a challenge. “Any characters I should know about?”
The world swam back into place around them. He was real. Here. Not some ethereal being but a person—flesh and blood and the slightest hint of cologne.
Leah was practically glowing. “Only if you’ve ever played a brooding antagonist with a god complex and soul-stealing tendencies.”
Darren’s mouth curved in a way that made heat pool low in Emma’s stomach. Her body was clearly hell-bent on sabotaging any attempt at composure.
“That does sound like my ballpark.”
“Emma Whitehart,” Leah said, and nudged her forward. “Darren Cole. You two should talk. Or smolder at each other. I’ll let you work it out.”
And then she disappeared, like a villain in heels. For half a second, Emma could only stare after her, dazed and helpless. Then there was nowhere to look but at him.
She wanted to run.
Or find a ficus to hide behind.
Or rewind time by ten months and decide to stick with her corporate job for the rest of her life rather than ever submitting a manuscript.
None of which seemed like an immediately viable option.
“Hi,” she pressed out.
Okay. Solid start.
Darren lifted a brow. “Emma Whitehart,” he repeated, as if tasting the name. “So you’re the one who wroteThe Bonds of Light.”
“I . . . yeah.” She gave the tiniest shrug. “Guilty.”
Internally, her brain started firing on all cylinders.Heknew who she was?
He tipped his glass toward her in a toast. “Congratulations on a very dedicated fan base. I’ve...encountered them once or twice.”
Heat climbed her neck.Stupid body.“Yeah, sorry about that. They have a type.”
His eyes glinted. “Do they now?”
The heat of her skin settled deeper, embarrassment shifting into something harder to name. Thrill. Attraction. Recognition. That look—the one he gave on screen, all silk and voltage—was even more devastating in person. She tried her best to look unaffected, but she was pretty sure her pulse was visible on her throat.
Darren lifted his hand toward her face.
