I jump out of bed late the next morning with Dylan on the brain. I have no work until tonight’s event, and there are a lot of hours between now and then.

I pick up my phone and pull up his number. Without giving myself time to overthink, I call him. I just want to thank him for holding up his end of the bargain and let him know the money successfully transferred. Right. Sure. That’s all I want.

He doesn’t pick up. And I don’t leave a message. Just as well—I don’t know what the heck to say to someone I barely know but can’t get out of my head.

I smile at the adorable pictures Rosita texted of Bessie on top of my fridge and Balaster crouching underneath my bed and type her back a thank you. Then I take a quick shower and blow-dry my hair before throwing on my most comfortable pair of jeans and a turquoise sweater.

I’m scrolling through my phone as I walk through the lobby when—

“Oompf.” My head hits a wall.

Of muscled chest.

Dazed, I look up.

My hand is pressed against Dylan Wild’s chest. He steadies me by putting his hand on my arm, and his eyes twinkle in amusement. “I tried to step around you, but you actually shifted at the same time, and we collided. Are you okay?”

I laugh. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just walking without watching where I’m going.”

He’s carrying a workout bag, and his hair’s damp like he just showered. His jeans and Cougars sweatshirt complete his casual look, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.

Because Dylan Wild is even hotter when he isn’t dressed up. Shit. I want to climb him all of a sudden—just wrap my legs around his waist and ride him into oblivion.

His face breaks into a smile. “Did you try to call me?”

“Yes. I wanted to thank you for wiring the money over. It got there safely.”

I step back, trying to appear casual. I’m finding it’s much harder to stay cool when you start to care about the guy. It’s also harder to focus. I’m so busy staring at Dylan and lusting over him that I can hardly carry on a logical conversation.

“I’m glad. I was working out,” he says. “I hoped you might call, not to thank me but to say hi.” His mouth turns up on one side.

I swallow. “You hoped right.”

“Sorry I missed you. What are you up to?”

“Just getting a bagel or something for breakfast.” I glance at my watch. “Okay, a late breakfast.”

“Let’s go.” He takes my arm and leads me out of the hotel.

Dylan blocks my face from the camera greeting us when we step outside, but in this case, I know he’s just trying to protect me rather than help himself. This cameraman is with a reputable magazine; Dylan told me about him last night. So I duck underneath his arm and let the paparazzo take his shots. I don’t speak or answer any of his inane questions like, “Do you have a black belt in the martial arts?”

Dylan hustles me away, and he insists on driving this time, so I have no idea where he’s taking me. We end up getting caught in traffic downtown.

“Lot of people out today,” Dylan says.

“There are people everywhere,” I say wearily. “You can’t escape them.”

“Sounds like you want to.”

“Who wouldn’t want to when you live in Los Angeles?” I say.

As we pull up in front of an art museum, I look over at him. “What’s this?”

“You like art, and I usually don’t have time or friends to do this sort of thing with. I love art museums. And they have a cafeteria here. Is this not okay?”

“It’s…perfect, actually.” That’s the problem. Dylan never fails to surprise me, only in good ways. I could fall for him by the end of the hour if I let myself.

He takes my hand as we leave the car and walk through the parking lot. Mine starts to sweat almost immediately, and I pull it away.

He grabs it back. “You turn me on, too,” he says, winking at me.

I sigh and march onward.

“So,” Dylan says as we take seats across from each other at the café. “What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“The museum.”

I smile at him. It’s a relief to be here, actually. It’s a relief to have something to talk about other than us.

“I like it,” I say. “A lot of the paintings are incredible.”

“Do you go to museums a lot in L.A.?”

“Not so much. I tend to get nauseous at them. All that creativity stuffed into one place overwhelms me. But I’ve been wanting to come to this museum, so I’m glad you thought of it.”

When his cell phone rings, I jump.

“Sorry,” he says to me. “Hold on a sec.”

I start in on my croissant. I’m starving.

“Tim, calm down. It’s just one crappy tabloid…”

Oh, no. This phone call is because of me and my inability to let Dylan handle his own shit.

“‘That woman’ has a name remember? It’s Jasalie. So start using it, Tim.”

Remember? When did Dylan mention me to this guy? I widen my eyes, but Dylan gestures an “It’s okay” with his hand.

I want to disappear into the ground of the museum right about now.

“No, she’s not a black belt. She’s just very good at protecting herself. Calm down, please.”

I block out what he says next and try to focus on the paintings lining the walls of the café.

“Fuck.” Dylan gets off the phone and tosses it in frustration onto his lap. “I have to do a photo shoot and interview this afternoon. My agent just flew into town, and he set it up without confirming with me.”

I inhale. “What about the other part of your conversation? The tabloid and ‘that woman’ part?”

He grimaces. “It’s no big deal. They’re running a loop of our exchange with the paparazzi last night on Hollywood Now! Just the part of you taking that asshole out.”

“Oh, my gosh.” My stomach goes into knots.

“Don’t worry.” Dylan waves his hand in the air like none of this matters. “Tim’s already making sure the video is exclusive so no other network can air it. I mean the photos will be in some online media outlets and possibly a magazine or two.”

My head is fully in my hands now.

“Jasalie, I’m sorry. This is the price of going out with me. You may have signed up for a few awkward photos together, but being crowded against a wall late at night by a group of strange men wasn’t a part of our deal. I usually see the paparazzi before they see me, like at the restaurant, and I should have been prepared for it last night. It’s my fault.”

I whip my head up to look into his face. His brows are furrowed, and his eyes look so…sad.

“Dylan, you seriously think I blame you for this?” I say softly. “Besides, who cares if I’m on a few magazine covers? Bill’s such a fame whore that he’ll undoubtedly think the whole thing’s great press for the company. You’re the only one this really affects. You asked me to be your date in Tucson to help your charity, and my behavior last night proves you can’t trust me. You have to worry about your reputation. You know, the Dylan Wild brand.”

Dylan’s eyes get so dark I can hardly make out the gold highlights. “Jasalie, I don’t give a damn about my brand. I care about my charity, yes. My brand, no.”

I give him a look. “Come on, Dylan. Be truthful. You care a little bit. You have to. I would, too, if I were you.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Honestly, I really just care about playing football. All this crap—it starts to take over your life. It happens slowly, and before you know it—”

He trails off, but I complete his unfinished thought. “Before you know it, you forget that all that other stuff doesn’t really matter?”

“It can consume you,” he says in nearly a whisper. “Until you feel like you’re no longer a real person. It’s very isolating.”

I hate myself for ever thinking celebrities have it easier than me, for being so naïve to other people’s struggles and pain.

Not knowing what else to do, I reach for Dylan’s hand across the table. He takes it and holds on.

I try to come up with a light-hearted subject change. “So who are you doing the interview for today?”

“A men’s health magazine.” He turns off his phone and puts it in his pocket. “They’ll probably know very little about how I live my life.”

I don’t know what to say. Doing an interview for your craft sounds so glamorous, and yet I’m learning that I’ve been incredibly naïve to a lot of things regarding Dylan Wild.

“You want to come and watch?” he asks me suddenly.

“What? You mean I can?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Um…okay.” I guess, at the very least, I’ll be able to say I’ve had a bird’s-eye view into the life of a star football player. “Will this be another way to show me off as your date?”

“Only in passing. I don’t want to talk about you in the interview.”

I try to tamp down the twinge of disappointment that runs through me, but Dylan’s watching my eyes. “Jasalie. It’s nothing personal. I never talk about my private life to reporters, and I don’t know this guy at all. I wouldn’t trust him not to twist everything in the article. So the less I tell him, the better.”

The tension leaves my shoulders, and I relax. “I understand. I’ll sit nearby somewhere.”

“Great.” He grins at me. “This way, I can look at you instead of the interviewer. I’m sure he won’t be nearly as gorgeous.”

“Nice try at the flattery, Dylan. Very smooth.”

“Thanks. I’m good, aren’t I?”

“Real good. The best, I’d say.”

We’ve barely stepped foot into the hotel lobby when a balding, heavyset man, wearing dark-rimmed glasses, rushes up to us and grabs Dylan by the arm. “Where have you been? I’ve called your cell about twenty times! We need to get you into the makeup room—you’re due in the blue room in five minutes!”

He turns to me next. “And you’re Dylan’s date. Fabulous to meet you.”

Dylan steps closer to me. “Tim, this is Jasalie Gordon. Jasalie, this is Tim Schaeffer. My agent.”

Tim looks me over like I’m auditioning for a role in Dylan’s life.

I smile and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Tim.”

Tim shakes my hand and exhales. “You’ll do. You’ll more than do, just like I thought from those first shots of you two outside the restaurant. What happened last night, however—”

“Won’t happen again,” I assure him. “I was caught off-guard. It was dark and late at night, and the paparazzi got a little too close for my liking.”

“Oh, they’re crazy,” Tim agrees. “Dylan has to prepare you better. He needs to make sure you know what you’re in for when you step out in public with him. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

No, being with Dylan Wild is much more challenging than I’d ever anticipated. In every way possible.

“Relax, Tim.” Dylan starts walking toward the elevators, and Tim and I follow him. “Everything will be fine. Where’s the makeup room?”

“We’ve booked two separate rooms on your floor.” We step into the elevator, and Tim presses the button for the eighteenth floor. “They’ve got the makeup and hair stylists in one, and the interview and photo shoot will take place in the other. I already dropped off your clothes.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dylan says lightly. “What am I wearing?”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. His agent dresses him, and they pay for rooms just to take pictures in?

“Why don’t you just use the room you already have?” I whisper to Dylan. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

The elevator doors open, and we quickly move down the hall.

But Tim apparently has super-good hearing and overhears me. “Oh, no. You can’t do that. It makes no sense.”

“Why not?” I say.

“Because.” Tim stops at room 1820 and opens the door. “Here we are. In you go, Dylan boy. Jaylie, you can stay out here with me.”

“Jasalie is coming with me,” Dylan says firmly as he takes my arm and brings me with him into the room.

“I’ll be waiting for you when you come ou…” Tim’s voice is drowned out as the door closes behind us.

“Hi,” Dylan says to the woman standing inside the room. “I’m Dylan Wild. This is Jasalie Gordon. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi, I’m Shayna. Dylan, I’m here to get you ready for your photo shoot. These dark pants will look perfect with this cream button down. And we’ll roll up the sleeves to make it more casual and rugged looking.”

I take a seat in a chair as Shayna begins to work on Dylan’s hair. A football player being made up and primped. This might be the weirdest moment of my life.

We go into the “interview” room next. The photo shoot takes forever. And it feels like a waste of a whole lot of film to me. The photographer must take twenty shots of Dylan from the same exact angle.

“Just like that—perfect, Dylan,” over and over again, and “That looks fantastic, don’t move.”

Of course, Dylan does look gorgeous. The thin fabric of the shirt shows off the outline of his chest muscles. His pants hug his ass in all the right places, and when he strides across the room, I nearly fan my face. I make sure to keep my gaze away from his crotch.

Well, okay, I pretend to keep my gaze away. Really, I look in that area as much as I can without making it obvious. Dylan’s pants don’t just fit him well in the back—their snug style shows off all of him quite nicely. Fine, so I have to use my imagination a bit—the pants aren’t exactly a football uniform. But I’m so wired right now I feel like I’m halfway to orgasm just by watching him pose.

“So, Dylan.” Mike smirks as he begins the interview a few minutes later. “You’ve been in the league for six years and finally reached the pinnacle at age twenty-eight. What’s it like to be the hottest guy on the planet right now?”

I roll my eyes. Mike has a large body but a face like a skinny hawk. I’m sitting in a tiny space on the floor as far away from the interview area as possible. That’s where Tim told me to sit; he said I’d be more comfortable out of the way. Dylan actually can’t see me after all. He’d have to crane his neck in an uncomfortable manner in order to catch a glimpse of my left foot. Chances are, it’s not really worth it. But from my angle, I can see him and Mike.

“I don’t really pay attention to that stuff,” Dylan says. “You know, I just like to play football.”

“How does it feel having everyone love you?” Mike asks.

“They love you when you win,” Dylan says matter-of-factly. “When you don’t win, they don’t. I had a lot of years in the league without winning. So I’m enjoying this now, believe me, but I’m not naïve to it, either. I know that popularity is a fleeting thing. That’s why I focus on football.”

Mike nods briefly like he didn’t actually hear or truly understand one word of what Dylan just said. I myself found his answer fascinating. Sports are so strange, how somebody always has to lose. I had a hard enough time with one art teacher’s criticisms, and I can’t imagine an entire region of the country pressuring you to succeed for them. In sports, you aren’t okay unless you win, and a lot of times, luck plays too big of a role.

“But come on, you must do something besides football,” Mike says. “Right? Something else interest you?”

“Well, I’m really busy with football so much of the year,” Dylan says. “Right now, I have a little time off, which is great. But the season takes up most of your time, plus all the training. You can’t do much else.”

“Hmmm,” Mike says. “Do your girlfriends get bored of you only talking about football?”

Mike works for one of those new “trendy” magazines geared toward health fanatics but not necessarily athletes. He surely was not an athlete himself, or he’d be more interested in Dylan’s answers. And he’s clearly a jealous asshole.

“Nope,” Dylan says lightly.

I don’t understand why Dylan’s not saying anything in his defense. I want to scream out that Dylan doesn’t only talk about football, that he’s smart and well-rounded and a good listener. But he’s letting this guy believe the stereotypes.

“Wow.” Mike exhales loudly. “I don’t know how a chick could handle that. Do you think you get away with more than the rest of us subnormal males do? You know with your playboy looks and all?”

Dylan sounds calm when he responds. “Anytime you have success, it helps with your popularity. But I treat all women with respect.”

“Right.” Mike starts to laugh, and his fat ass nearly slides off the chair. His pants are way too tight, and I can see his wedgie from here as one butt cheek completely comes off his seat and dangles for a moment in mid-air.

“So you’re popular with the ladies. Not that we didn’t know that.”

The sarcastic tone in his voice is so rude I’m seething. I clench my hands into tight fists and try to stay calm.

“Let’s see, what else can I ask you?” Mike scans his notes. “Okay, I see here you’re originally from rural Montana.”

“Yep.” Dylan grins.

“Little slow there, I bet?” Mike smirks.

“Little. Depends on what you call slow. I loved growing up there.”

“You must have struggled coming to Los Angeles from small town Montana,” Mike says. “Maybe you felt out of your league?”

“I did at first. But my cousin and I moved out there together, which helped a lot. And I’m a flexible guy. I adjusted pretty quickly.”

“Just avoided the culture stuff right?” Mike guffaws. “You know, museums, historical stuff, anything non-sports related?”

Jesus. If I could just take my fist and shove it into Mike’s freaking face…

I glance over at Tim. He looks like he’s not even listening. He’s playing a game on his cell phone and has an ear piece in his right ear.

“Actually, no,” Dylan says. “I love art.”

I exhale in relief when he defends himself.

“I thought you just liked football,” Mike says. “That’s what you said at the beginning.”

“I said I didn’t have time for much else during the season,” Dylan corrects him. “But I do have other interests.”

“Like a woman?” Mike asks. “Perhaps the one who accompanied you into this room? You’ve been seen with her several times the last couple of days.”

“This interview isn’t to include questions about my personal life,” Dylan says.

“No problem.” Mike looks back down at his notes. “So, in terms of your brain, how big would you say it is?”

“Excuse me?” Dylan asks.

Then he cranes his neck in my direction. I lean to my left as far as I can, hoping he’ll be able to catch my eye.

“Come on, man.” Mike gives a loud laugh. “It’s all in fun. Is your brain big enough for you to be able to answer my question?”

When Dylan still hesitates, I lose the tight control I had over my temper.

I jump up, march over to Mike, and grab his iPad and recorder out of his hand. “Apologize to him or I delete this whole interview,” I say. “And I’ll smash this recorder thingy on the ground.”