My lips twitch. “I told you that you didn’t need to come in today. I already sent everything you need to the house yesterday. And,” I add with a nod to his computer, “you could have answered all those emails at home.”

He frowns, looking slightly abashed, and more than a little charming. It’s that combination of farm boy looks and serious sex appeal that helped rocket him to the top.

What I also notice is that he looks a little guilty, too.

“Oh, no, you didn’t,” I say, dropping into one of the leather chairs opposite his desk. “Please tell me you didn’t come all the way to the office just to keep an eye on me.”

“You know you can still change your mind and come on the tour.”

I slide my portfolio onto his desk before leaning back and crossing my arms. “One, the flight arrangements are already made. Two, half the studio PR department will be there to take care of you. Three, I have big plans for plowing through the insane pile of work I never seem to get to because my boss is so high maintenance.”

He rolls his eyes at that. Lyle is so not high maintenance.

“Look,” I continue, before he can grab control of the conversation, “it’s really not a big deal. You’re acting like I have some psycho stalker after me, but it was just a creepy postcard and an email.” I congratulate myself on sounding convincing. Because yes, I am a bit wigged out. But I also know it’s probably nothing. Even so, I’m not going to jog by myself after dark or do a hop-skip routine down an abandoned alley. I’ll be smart, and I’ll be fine.

And the more I repeat that to myself, the more I believe it.

Bottom line, Lyle is not altering his plans because of me. And I’m not altering mine because some jerk has put me on edge.

“Just an email and a postcard? Did you forget that someone tagged the hood of your car?”

I wave that away. There was no reason to believe that was personal. More likely some teens acting out. A conclusion I’ve told him at least half a dozen times.

“Just do me a favor and stay here. The couch folds out, and it’s comfortable.”

I roll my eyes. “I have a house in Studio City. Plus a cat I have to feed. I’ll be fine.”

His phone chimes, indicating that someone is downstairs waiting to be buzzed in. More folks from studio publicity, I assume. “I’ll meet them at the door,” I say, as he presses the button to authorize them to enter the foyer and operate the elevator.

“We’re going to find a compromise,” he says as I head out of the room. “I’m not leaving the country unless I’m certain my staff is safe.”