Gabe leaned back on his heels and let out a whistle, as if I’d just said something profound.

“A documentation of your ideas,” he repeated. “You are a writer.”

Suddenly I got this horrible feeling that there had been some huge, weird mix-up and he didn’t know I was here to interview him. Or I was being pranked.

“Yes? Broad Sheets sent me?” I hated how my voice kept going up at the end of my sentences, making everything a question.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, as if I was the one who wasn’t making any sense. “You write other things too, right? Like, fiction?”

“Yes?”

He grinned at me as if I’d just told him I had the cure for cancer.

“That’s awesome,” he said. “I love books.”

I didn’t know what to think. On one hand, it seemed that all the people who had thought that Gabe was too much of a himbo hick to play Bond might have had a point. On the other hand, he was so damn adorable, it was hard not to find him and his “I love books” comment utterly charming.

“Should we get started?” I realized that I’d been in his house for almost ten minutes, seen him shirtless, and still hadn’t asked him a single serious question. “Where’s the best place to talk?”

“I thought we’d go to lunch,” he said. “There’s a great pub on Ventura. Do you mind driving?”

“Uh…”

“But first,” he said, walking past me. “Let me show you something.”

I didn’t have any choice but to follow.

Broad Sheets had said I’d be getting more access than other interviewers. Gabe’s management really wanted to counter the anti-Parker narrative coming from Bond fans.

But when Gabe showed me into his bedroom, I stopped in the doorway, knowing that there was access and there was access.

“Check out this view,” Gabe said, throwing open the curtains.

It was quite the view.

The puppy sat at Gabe’s feet, the two of them a gorgeous, film-worthy tableau, bathed in the December sunlight. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt. His back was incredible. All smooth muscles and sleek lines. I wanted to stand behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and press my cheek against one of his shoulder blades.

The desire to do so was so strong that I could practically feel his hot skin against my face. Or maybe that was just because my own skin felt warm. Very warm. I pressed my cool hands to my throat and looked away.

Enough was enough.

I took in his room instead, searching for something I could use in my article.

It was a nice bedroom—big and simple. Pleasant, but impersonal. Very clearly a temporary living situation.