Head down, I push my way out of my car and rush inside as fast as I can before I’m able to talk myself out of it. I’m not looking where I’m going, too distracted by my own racing thoughts, which is why I’m absolutely shocked when I run into a wall of solid muscle. I drop my purse and take a step back, my eyes wide as they trail up from a thin, navy sweater stretched over very well-defined pecs. Those biceps are testing the limits of the sleeves that barely contain them. Upward still, a strong neck and jaw covered in a dusting of golden-brown hair. Full, pink lips curved upward in an indulgent smile. Green eyes, sparkling with mischief.

“I’m so sorry,” I say breathlessly but unable to move. Either I haven’t gotten out in a while, or this man in front of me is one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Maybe both.

He bends down to pick up my purse from where it fell on the ground. By the way he chuckles when he hands it to me, I know my mouth is gaping.

“Not a problem.” His voice is warm and smooth, like the feeling of really good whiskey sliding down your throat and settling into your belly. “You seemed distracted, Miss…”

It takes me a moment before I realize he’s asking my name. And then it takes me another moment before I remember what name I’m supposed to give him. “Fr—Falmouth,” I correct myself quickly. “S.J. Falmouth.”

He extends his hand, and I shake it. The rough callouses of his palm scrape deliciously against mine. It sends a jolt of electricity up my arm, which serves to wake me all the way up. This man is hot, and he must be in publishing in some capacity if he’s in the lobby of the press offices. How does someone who sits at a computer all day have such rough hands? It’s patently unfair. But I’m distracted from that question by the gentle rubbing of his thumb against the inside of my wrist, which would seem to suggest he likes what he’s looking at.

It’s me. He’s looking at me.

Trina’s voice nags at the back of my consciousness: Get yourself out there.

If she were here, I’d kick her and tell her to shut up.

“I’ve heard of you,” the man is saying. “You’re debuting at the end of this year?”

“Uh…” God, I wish I had rehearsed some answers to these questions. “Yes. Right.”

He chuckles good-naturedly and releases my hand. “Congratulations. I know. It’s a weird feeling to talk about your work at first. You get used to it. I’m Charles Hall. It’s nice to meet you.”