“Yes, sir,” Danica says next to me at the check-in counter, talking on the phone with one of the guests. “I understand, sir. We’ll handle it.” She hangs up and rolls her eyes. “Another noise complaint from Mr. Anthony in seven oh one.”

“Sucks to be you,” I say, not looking up from the folios I’m preparing for the morning’s checkouts.

“I’ll finish up the folios if you handle the noise complaint this time,” Danica says. “I chased down all the noise complaints last night.”

“Oh, no you didn’t, you liar. I handled three right before we watched the Lucas Ford porno, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right. Shoot.”

“Your turn tonight, babycakes. Have fun.”

“Okay, okay.” Danica begins moving around the front desk. “Speaking of the rock star with the gigantic cock, did you hear? It’s all over the internet. Lucas Ford had some sort of meltdown at his concert tonight. He flipped off the audience and marched offstage, mid-set, even before playing ‘Shattered Hearts.’ Apparently, he left his band standing there, like, ‘Wha…?’ I feel sorry for anyone who bought a ticket.”

“No, I didn’t see that. And you know why? Because, unlike you, I’ve been working all night. Off you go, babe. Say hi to Mr. Seven Oh One for me.”

Danica waves dismissively. “Yeah, yeah.” She strides across the lobby toward the elevator bank, flipping her dark hair and swinging her hips as she goes.

I look down at my work again, but before I can get too far into it, the outside line rings. “The Rockford Hotel,” I say, pressing the phone into my ear. “How may I help you?”

“Do you have a penthouse suite available tonight?” a nerdy male voice asks. “I need it for about a week. It’s for a high-profile individual.”

I’m not surprised by the high-profile individual thing. We get that a lot at The Rockford, even at this Denver location, although surely our Los Angeles and New York sister locations attract celebrity guests far more often. “One moment, please. I’ll check availability.” I clack on my keyboard. “Yes, sir, I’ve got Penthouse A available. It’s a non-smoking suite. Will that work for your client?”

“That’s fine.”

I describe the basics of the suite and the nightly rate, half expecting the caller to balk when confronted with the outlandish price tag, but nope, he doesn’t flinch. “We’ll take it,” he says without hesitation. “Be there in two minutes.”

“Certainly. May I have a name and credit card number to hold the suite, sir? Sir?”

But the line is dead.

Damn. It’s against company policy for me to hold a room without a name and credit card number. And unfortunately, as I well know after two years of working here, the phrase “be there in two minutes” could mean anything from two minutes to ten hours to not showing up at all. But before I can get too worked up about the situation, a guy whose physical appearance precisely matches the nerdy voice on the phone walks across the lobby and heads straight to the front desk with none other than… Gah! Lucas Ford in tow.

Oh my effing God. Lucas Freaking Ford!

I can barely breathe.

My teenage fantasy is now a full-grown man dressed in dark ripped jeans and a tight black T-shirt, an ensemble that perfectly flatters his broad shoulders and muscled physique. His dark hair is tousled like he gives no fucks. And yet, somehow, he looks like he totally meant to do that. The tattoos on his arms are intricate and bold. His cheekbones are striking and his lips kissable. And most heart-stopping of all, his dark eyes—the ones I used to stare into as a teenager while imagining he was my boyfriend doing all manner of naughty things to me—are filled with soul and passion like nothing I’ve… Oh. Wait. Scratch that. Much to my surprise, Lucas Ford’s eyes aren’t filled with his signature fire tonight. They’re blank and lifeless. What the heck? Whenever I’ve seen Lucas Ford in music videos and doing TV interviews—and especially when I went to his concert so many years ago and beheld his stunning face on a jumbo screen—the unmistakable passion in his eyes was by far his most striking feature.

“Hi,” the nerdy guy says, drawing my attention away from Lucas Ford, who’s drifting toward the far side of the lobby. “I just called about the penthouse?”

I’m dying. I can’t believe I’m breathing the same air as Lucas Ford. I take a deep breath and force myself not to completely lose my shit. “Yes, Penthouse A,” I manage to say, my voice somehow not betraying my inner freak-out. “May I have a name and credit card, please?” The in-house phone rings. Shit! It’s Mr. Seven Oh One again. “Excuse me a moment, sir.”

“I’m in a hurry,” Nerd Guy says, his tone snippy. “I’ve got to get my client to his room before fans show up and start demanding fucking selfies.” I shift my eyes to Lucas again. He’s shuffling toward a grouping of armchairs by the elevator bank, his guitar case in his hand, his head down.

Crap. Where’s Danica when I need her? “Of course,” I say. “I’ll put the caller on hold.” I pick up the phone. “Hello, Mr. Anthony. Will you hold a moment, sir?”

“Those bastards are still making noise!” Mr. Seven Oh One shouts into my ear.

“Hold please, sir,” I say and quickly push the hold button. I smile at Nerd Guy. “Sorry about that, sir. Now, let’s get your client checked in.” I can’t resist glancing at Lucas Ford across the lobby again, my breathing shallow. He’s slumped in a chair by the elevators, his hands over his face, his guitar case leaning against a nearby chair. Oh my God, he looks like a work of art: Tragically Beautiful Rock Star Reposed in Deep Contemplation.

Out of nowhere, Danica’s standing next to me.

“Room seven oh one is on hold,” I mutter to her, relieved she’s here. I indicate the flashing red light on the phone.

Danica flashes me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes—a smile that instantly makes it clear to me she hasn’t noticed the rock star in our midst on the other end of the lobby. “Perfect,” she says in a clipped tone. “I’ll handle our guest’s check-in while you assist Mr. Anthony. He was asking for you when I went up there a moment ago.” She addresses Nerd Guy. “Your identification and credit card, sir? I’ll get you checked in right away.” In one fell swoop, she rips the keyboard out of my hands, puts her palm out to Nerd Guy, and gets the goods from him, leaving me to handle the guest who’s quickly become the bane of both our existences.

Damn, she’s good.

I clear my throat and pick up the phone. “Hello, Mr. Anthony. How can I help you?”

Mr. Seven Oh One reads me the riot act about some purported noise at the other end of the seventh floor that Danica apparently didn’t resolve adequately for him when she was up there a few moments ago, and I politely promise to come up there immediately to handle the issue.

“I’ll be back,” I say to no one in particular, walking around the front desk. I make my way toward the elevators. Toward Lucas freaking Ford!

It’s harder and harder to breathe with each step I take.

Holy hell, he’s larger than life, even just sitting there slumped in a chair.

I’m mere feet away from him now, steps away from the man I’ve dreamed of kissing since I was fifteen years old.

My legs wobble. I might hyperventilate.

You can do this, Abby. Put one foot in front of the other. Breathe.

I close in on my teenage fantasy and stare at his downturned face, hoping against hope he might happen to glance up and catch my eye as I pass. I know it’s silly, but I just want to smile at him, just once in my life. And maybe even get a return smile from him that I’d surely never forget.

I’m three feet away from him now…and glory be, he’s lowering his hands from his face at this very moment! And he’s lifting his head…and…Oh my God! No. The unthinkable is happening right before my stricken eyes. Lucas Ford is pulling out a cigarette and a lighter…and now he’s putting the blasted cigarette between his lips, and…

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no smoking in the lobby,” I blurt, stopping and standing right in front of him. Oh, fuck my life. I did not just say that to Lucas Ford! And I didn’t just use my eighty-year-old-librarian voice when I said it to him, either…right?

At my stern warning, Lucas Ford doesn’t even pause. He lights the cigarette dangling precariously between his luscious lips like I hadn’t said a damned word.

My heart is beating out of my chest. “I’m sorry, sir,” I manage to choke out, my voice trembling. “You can’t smoke in the lobby. It’s against the law.”

Lucas Ford’s dark eyes lock with mine. That same blankness I noticed in them before is still eerily present. He takes a long, languid drag on his cigarette and silently blows smoke to the side. “Make an exception.”

My heart lurches into my throat. Lucas Ford just spoke to me! Of course, this particular conversation is nothing like the one I used to fantasize about having with him if I ever met him. But hey, at least he spoke to me. “Sorry, I can’t make an exception,” I say, my heart racing. “It’s illegal to smoke in a hotel lobby under the Colorado Clean Indoor Air Act of 2006.” Oh, Jesus Christ. I did not just cite a statute to Lucas Ford! I feel the distinct urge to palm my forehead, but I somehow refrain.

Mr. Rock Star’s eyes are dead, dead, dead. He takes another long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out in a long, purposeful stream, this time straight at my face. “I think we can safely ignore the Colorado Clean Indoor Air Act of 2006 at three in the morning on a Monday. Don’t you think? Let’s agree to live dangerously, just this once…”—he glances at my nametag—“Abby.”

My entire body’s buzzing at the sound of Lucas Ford saying my name—even though, yes, I admit it’s not optimal that he said my name with obvious disdain. I take a deep breath and consciously force myself not to kiss my job goodbye and hurl myself at the man like a missile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ford. If it were up to me, I’d ‘live dangerously’ with you all night long, but I can’t because this job pays my rent, and unfortunately one of my duties is enforcing the rules.”

Lucas takes another long drag of his cigarette. “Make a fucking exception, Abby.”

Seriously? I put my hands on my hips. “Sorry, I really can’t make an exception for you, Mr. Ford. See, that’s the crazy thing about laws. They apply at all hours of the day or night, no matter which day of the week it happens to be, and no matter the profession of the lawbreaker.” My heart racing, I lean forward and whisper, “Yes, Mr. Ford, the law even applies to rock stars with exceptionally large dicks.” I lean away from him and stare him down, feeling equal parts shocked and proud those badass words just escaped my lips.

One side of Mr. Rock Star’s mouth tilts up. “Wow,” he says. “Abby the Ass-kicker.”

I nod curtly. “When I need to be.”

He sucks on his cigarette again. “I take it you’ve seen my sex tape?”

My stomach tightens. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. If I were you, I’d watch it, too.” For a long beat, Lucas brazenly looks me up and down like he’s deciding whether to purchase me from a pirate-bride auction. “Did you like what you saw in the video, Abby the Ass-kicker?”

Oh, my, my. This conversation seems to be taking a delicious turn. “I liked it a lot, actually.”

He leans back in his armchair and takes another long drag of his cigarette. “You a fan of mine?”

I nod. “A big fan.”

He sucks on his cigarette again. “How big?”

“I saw your very first tour when I was fifteen. You had to be nineteen or twenty, and when you started playing ‘Shattered Hearts,’ I burst into tears.”

He looks wholly unimpressed, like he’s heard the exact same thing a billion times before.

My stomach clenches. “I had a poster of you on my bedroom wall,” I add quickly. “I probably listened to ‘Shattered Hearts’ on a loop for a solid year in my bedroom, staring at your face every single time.” My heart is beating wildly. “I’d blare that song late at night and get into bed and…” I abruptly close my mouth. Holy shit, what am I doing? I can’t say what I was about to say to this man—especially not at work. I clear my throat and straighten up. “Suffice it to say, I was a big fan.”

He bristles. “You were a fan? Past tense?”

I feel my cheeks burn. Shit. The expression on his face tells me I’ve messed up. “Oh, no, I’m still a fan of yours. Of course. I’m just not, you know, an obsessive teenager anymore.”

He slumps back into his chair, his body language painting the portrait of a man who doesn’t give a shit.

Oh, really? I didn’t kiss his rock star ass to his liking? I clench my jaw, suddenly feeling a thumping desire to put this entitled asshole in his place. “That’s what happens to obsessive teenagers, I guess. They grow up to become adults who have no choice but to enforce the Colorado Clean Indoor Air Act of 2006.” I put my hand out and practically tap my toe, my body language telling him in no uncertain terms I’m waiting for him to finally stop acting like a self-entitled douche-canoe and give me his damned cigarette. But he doesn’t do it. Nope. The prick just keeps on sucking on his cancer stick, his eyes dead and his body language utterly apathetic. Un-freaking-believable. “Look, Mr. Ford,” I spit out. “I could get fired if you don’t put that thing out.” I motion vaguely to the ceiling. “There are video cameras throughout the lobby, and my boss might be watching. So, please, do me a huge favor and stop acting like a rock star cliché for thirty seconds and give me your damned cigarette.”

Okay, yeah, I’m pouring it on a bit thick, not to mention bullshitting about my job being on the line here. I mean, yes, there are video cameras in the lobby—that part is true—but it’s highly unlikely anyone other than the security guy is watching, and he certainly doesn’t have authority to fire me. But still, Lucas Ford’s being an entitled asshole right now, and that makes me want to knock the cocky bastard down a peg or two or three.

Lucas takes another long suck on his cigarette, quite plainly telling me he doesn’t give a fuck if the poor little hotel clerk loses her job because of him.

Okay, now I’m pissed. Smoking a stupid cigarette at three in the morning in a hotel lobby is more important to him than my livelihood? What an asshole! What a sexy motherfucking bad-boy asshole with a big dick! Oh, Jesus. My clit is pounding like a jackhammer, even as my blood is simmering with near-homicidal rage.

I put my hand out to him, my eyes locked onto his. “Give me the fucking cigarette, Mr. Ford.” I lean in close enough to catch a whiff of his deliciously masculine scent and whisper into his ear. “I’m not fucking around here, sir. Last chance to prove you’re a decent human being, or else, if there’s a hell, I’m sure you’ll be going to it.”

I pull back and glare at him, and when I do, I’m surprised to find his eyes flickering with unmistakable heat.

Lucas bites his luscious lip. “How the hell can a woman who looks so much like a kindergarten teacher kick so much ass?”

I shrug. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. I assure you I’m the last woman in the world who’s going to read you Goodnight Moon.”

He can’t help himself. He throws his head back and laughs out loud, and the sound of his sexy laughter sends heat flashing through my core.

I put out my hand, sighing. “Just give me the damned cigarette, Mr. Ford. For the love of God. Enough with the rock star attitude. I’m tired.”

A heart-stopping smile spreads across his beautiful face. And finally, slowly, blessedly, the bastard hands me his damned cigarette.

I take the contraband from him and immediately adopt a prim, professional affect. “Thank you, Mr. Ford. Welcome to The Rockford, sir.”

He licks his lips in a decidedly sexual way. “Please, don’t call me Mr. Ford. I’m Lucas or Luke.” He leans forward like he’s telling me a secret. “And don’t call me ‘sir.’ Unless, of course, I happen to be fucking you. In which case, please do.”

My lips part in surprise.

He smirks, his formerly dead eyes positively on fire now.

I clear my throat. “I’ll keep that in mind—if ever you’re lucky enough to be fucking me.”

Oh, man, those eyes of his are a five-alarm fire now. He opens his mouth to say something, but Nerd Guy appears and cuts him off.

“Come on, Luke,” Nerd Guy says, traipsing toward the elevators. He indicates the lit cigarette in my hand. “Is that yours? Dude. How many times have I told you? You can’t smoke in hotel lobbies in Colorado. There’s a law.”

“Yeah, so this lovely woman was just explaining to me.” He stands and gathers his guitar case. “See ya ’round, Abby the Ass-kicker. Thanks for the legal education. It was highly entertaining.”

“My pleasure, sir. It’s been my pleasure to properly welcome you to our fine hotel.” I smile at him sweetly and Mr. Dead Eyes surprises me by winking at me in reply.

The minute the elevator doors close behind Lucas and his handler, I crumple into the armchair Lucas vacated mere seconds ago, the dwindling remnants of his cigarette still lodged between my index finger and thumb.

Oh my gosh. That was the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life. Who was I just now? I can’t believe the things I said to him…and, even more so, the things I implied. It was like I was a sexy heroine from a James Bond movie! My fifteen-year-old self would be high-fiving me right now, and, I must admit, I’d be high-fiving her right back.

I look down at the burning cigarette in my shaking hand, my heart and clit both raging. Even though I know I should snuff the thing out, I can’t seem to do it. Not yet, anyway. Instead, I turn my back on the video camera affixed to the ceiling above me, place my mouth around the end of the cigarette, wrapping my lips around the exact spot where Lucas Ford’s lips rested moments ago. And I give that motherfucker a good, long suck…imagining, as I do, quite graphically, that I’m sucking on Lucas Ford’s gigantic throbbing cock until his warm liquid magic is shooting straight down my hungry throat.