Gabe was staying in a rental house in Laurel Canyon. I’d expected something grand, with a massive gate and intense security system, but I’d been sent to a modest bungalow set back from the street with nothing more than an unlocked, waist-high gate to keep people out.

But even though it was small, I knew the place had to cost at least four times more than the apartment I shared with one stranger and one half-friend.

I could feel my heart ricocheting up and down my throat as I walked through the gate and down the pathway. A heart attack or a panic attack or some other sort of attack seemed extremely likely.

“He’s just a person. He’s just a person,” I said to myself.

I lifted my hand, but before I could even knock, the door swung open and there he was.

Gabe. Parker.

I’d done enough interviews like this to know firsthand the difference a camera and a crew could make in someone’s appearance. Actors were usually shorter than they appeared, their heads often bigger. Round cheeks could make someone look chubbier than they were, just as chiseled features could come off as gaunt in real life.

A part of me had been praying that Gabe Parker’s good looks were mostly manufactured.

I was swiftly and immediately proven wrong.

He. Was. Glorious.

Tall, knee-bucklingly handsome, and backlit by the best sunlight California could muster on a brisk winter day. His dark brown hair was mussed, a wavy lock flopped onto his forehead in a way that looked both boyish and rugged. He had a dimple in his left cheek—which I already knew about, but it was on full display as he greeted me with a smile that made my heart stop so abruptly that I put a hand to my chest.

He was so beautiful.

I was so fucked.

“It’s you!” he said.

As if he had been waiting for me. The truth was that I had been waiting for him. Literally. This interview had been scheduled and rescheduled several times already.

But none of that mattered now.

I felt fluttery. All over.

I didn’t like it.

It was deeply unprofessional and a complete cliché. The world already assumed that all female reporters slept with—or were trying to sleep with—their subjects. I was here to do my job, not get all hot and bothered over a sexy celebrity.

It was enough to keep those tingly feelings at bay.

Gabe was still blasting me with that full-force grin. It was so powerful that it took me at least ten seconds to realize he was holding a puppy in his arms. And I loved dogs.

“Can you take her for a moment?” he asked.