Page 1 of You Rock My World
1
JOSIE
August—Present Time
“Hello, stranger.”
The deep, masculine voice rolls down my spine, spreading the chill of an ice cube and the burn of a branding iron. My back stiffens, yet I hold still. I don’t turn right away.
I keep facing the desk, surveying the endless shelves in the study. The books belong to tonight’s host, someone I’ve never met—same goes for the rest of the guests. What possessed me to come to this party? I should’ve told my date no. But he seemed so stoked to be invited to a private Hollywood bash that I reluctantly agreed to tag along. But no good deed goes unpunished, and now I’ve got my reckoning waiting behind me.
I inhale deeply, exhale, and finally face the owner of that voice. But no amount of controlled breathing can prepare me for the man standing before me, the one who haunts my dreams, turning them into hopeless nightmares.
Rian Phoenix—rockstar, actor, sex icon of my generation.
I fix on a point past his shoulder, not to take him in all at once. Staring at him directly is as dumb as looking at the sun. But my evasive moves are pointless. His charisma assaults me from every direction, pulling my gaze toward him like iron to a magnet.
Giving up, I scan the fitted dark T-shirt that clings to his frame tightly enough to prompt indecent thoughts. The ripped black jeans so worn they might’ve been through every world tour with him. They fit him as a second skin tailored by time. I take inventory of the silver necklace that peeks out from under the T-shirt, the leather cuff at his wrist, and the chain that dangles from his belt loop, catching the light to reveal its wear and scratches.
His boots are scuffed but expensive. And topping it all off, he’s wearing a jet-black leather jacket—lightweight, probably some designer I can’t pronounce—that hangs open, making him look even cooler.
His raven-black hair falls past his chiseled cheekbones in untamed waves. But it’s his icy-blue eyes, now laser-focused on me, that melt my internal organs a million times faster in person than they do from behind a movie screen or from across an arena packed with thousands of people. Because yes, I’m that pathetic and went to one—okay, three—of his concerts.
“Hi,” I squawk.
He tilts his head. “Is it my impression, or have you been snubbing me all night?”
I stare at the door that he’s blocking with his imposing frame. Yep, we’re alone and Rian Phoenix is cutting off my only escape route.
Turns out, hiding in here wasn’t the genius survival plan I thought it was. I should’ve stuck to a “blend in the crowd” approach. Easier to slip away. But now he’s found me, and the game is up.
For the first time since I spotted him across the living room, I let myself take his features in, embrace the full force of his burning star. I allow my eyes to roam the planes of his face. The sharp curve of his jawline shadowed by stubble I wouldn’t mind nuzzling against. His strong, straight nose that adds to the intensity of his expression, while the cute scrunch of his brows keeps him from being truly intimidating. And then there’s that lopsided grin, pointed right at me, fully weaponized and ready to finish me off.
His eyes crinkle, making the whole of him impossible to withstand.
“I… I didn’t think you’d remember me,” I finally say.
He arches a skeptical eyebrow at that.
“I mean, you must meet so many people. You can’t remember all of them.”
“I meet a lot of people, yeah.” He crosses his arms over his toned chest and leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “I don’t get stuck in elevators for ten hours with many of them.” A pause, that smirk again. “You made a lasting impression, Josie Monroe.”
All I can say for myself is that I keep my mouth shut and don’t squawk again, or make any other embarrassing sounds, or faint—even if I’m most definitely swooning.
“Were you really not going to say hi?” he asks in that millions-of-records-sold voice of his.
I give him the slightest headshake.
He narrows his eyes, but he’s still smiling as he accuses, “So, youweresnubbing me.”
“No.” I cringe in embarrassment. “More like strategically avoiding you?”
His blue eyes widen at the admission. “Why?”
It’s a simple question, and I should be able to brush it off nonchalantly, but I can’t. I don’t really know him, but it feels like I do, and like he knows me in return. Which makes no sense—it’s as illogical as it was that night we spent locked up together. And even if it’s been a year, it seems like no time has passed at all. As if the intimacy of being trapped alone has never left us even these many months later.
So, I go with the truth, like always for him. “You’re still too hot and too married.”
