N.J. Adel

Andrea grabbed a gossip magazine from the stack on the coffee table and hid her face behind the glossy paper, while Dad climbed the stairs.

On the cover, there was a bare-chested picture of Mike Gennaro, and my mind went blank. The taupe brown curls of his hair flowed down to his naked shoulders. His dark brown eyes held a mischievous gaze. A scruffy jaw complemented his strong cheekbones and sculpted lips.

Heat spread under my skin as I traced down the lines of hairless, chiseled chest and killer abs. The thirty-three-year-old actor was a wet dream waiting to happen.

Happened.

So many times.

My eyes landed on the title under the picture.

The Italian Heartthrob back in L.A.

My heart raced despite me and all the promises I’d been making to myself. I mused back at my half-naked best friend, my thumb brushing against my smiling lips.

“He’s too old for you,” Andrea said. “Nine years too old to be exact.”

Eight years and nine months. I cleared my throat. “Who?”

Andrea’s head popped from behind the magazine. “Really?”

My head jerked in the other direction. “I already have a boyfriend. Mike is my friend.”

“No, he isn’t. He’s my friend, and my client. That makes him an acquaintance to you. Don’t mistake him for anything else.”

“Not everyone is so lucky to figure out what they want the first time. Some of us have to try again and again and again, and just hope they’ll finally find it.”

The phone buzzed again, this time with a text message alert. I scowled at the name on the screen. Mike.

Morning, Kiddo. Back from Berlin. Scheduled 4 photo shoots till 3. Call me when u r up. TC.

Sniffling, I tapped the dial icon and placed the phone on my ear, expecting voicemail.

“Carolina, how’re you doing?” Mike answered, his voice cheerful. “Why are you up so early?”

My heart thudded. The way his Italian accent popped as his rugged voice said my middle name warmed my cheeks. “Um… I haven’t slept yet.” I ran a finger across my eyebrow. “What’re you doing answering your phone? I thought they were getting you dolled up for pictures.”

He laughed. “They will…in thirty minutes.”

“Okay. How was Berlin?”

“Was all right. Shoot. Promote. Fest. Same old stuff. Anyway, what’s up with you, Kiddo?”

I hated it when he called me that. “I’m not a fucking Kiddo.”

He chuckled. “Missed your potty mouth.”

I rolled my eyes. “Really?”

His laughter continued. “No, not really.” He paused for a couple of seconds. “But I sure missed you.”

“I missed you too, Superstar.”

“So what are you up to?”

I took a long breath. “Guess what? One of my short pieces of shit has just won an award.”