I’m an idiot.
She hadn’t recognized Cary Kingston—the most famous rock star on the planet.
Of course, he wasn’t always famous; Sebastien had discovered him at a dive bar in Winnipeg more than twenty years ago. Her boss had mortgaged his house, rolling the dice on the eighteen-year-old guitar virtuoso, beating the house with consecutive gold records.
“I’m sorry—the glasses threw me,” Tyler said, stepping in for a hug.
As soon as they touched, her olfactory memory fired like a flare gun.
Back when she was just an intern, she’d met Cary backstage at one of his shows. He’d been her high school crush—every poster on her bedroom wall, every secret diary entry.
And he’d been wearing Calvin KleinObsession.
She remembered because the scent had clung to her sweater for days, a lingering reminder of the closest she’d ever been to a fantasy.
“No worries,” he said, laughing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. His deep, raspy voice was one in a million, maybe a billion. “I wear them on purpose.”
“What are you doing here?” Tyler tilted her head, lips pressing into a doubtful line. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Chicago?”
He shrugged. “I had a day off, so I came here to sort out some business.”
Cary lived in Los Angeles—more specifically, Malibu—but kept a place in Vancouver because he was Canadian by birth. His hometown, Brandon, Manitoba, was two and a half hours west of Winnipeg. They called it the Wheat City and everyone eats gluten there.
A sneeze pulled their attention to the floor, where Rory lay on his back like a sun-tanner in Ibiza.
“Rory!” Cary dropped to his knees and scratched the dog’s belly. “Who’s a good boy?”
“You’re embarrassing me, Rory.” Tyler rested her hands on her hips, aware that millions of women, including herself, would have gladly traded places with her dog. “Don’t you have any shame?”
“No, Mom,” Cary answered for him, grinning. “Hold on.” He grabbed his phone. “I want to take his picture. He looks like a centerfold model.”
“My angel, the centerfold.”
“I’m surprised you know that song.”
“I know a lot of old songs—including yours.”
“Funny.” He winked, and she tried not to die.
Was he still dating Emma what’s-her-name? Not that it mattered. It’s not like he was going to marry her. Cary had been on the Most Eligible Bachelors list for twenty years and counting.
“Is there any mail for me?” he asked.
It wasn’t a serious question. His fans loved sending him things—some weird, some wildly inappropriate. After the more disturbing items failed to sell on eBay,Sebastien donated them to charity in exchange for a tax receipt.
“Knock yourself out.” She gestured to the Mount Everest of fan mail. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
“I’ve had the office coffee,” he said, grimacing. “How about going to Artigiano?”
“Excuse me? Our coffee isn’t good enough for you?”
“No.” He pulled down his beanie. “It’s fine.”
She laughed, tightening her topknot, looking for any reason to leave. “No, it tastes like shit. Let’s get out of here.”
After setting the office alarm, Tyler locked the door and double-checked it behind them.
If only she’d worn something other than her Skull Skates hoodie and black leggings, but who the hell knew she’d be running into Cary Kingston?
