A red-lit exit sign caught my attention. At the sight of it, some tension in my chest loosened. I could escape. Stride across the conference room, head out that exit, hop in my car, and drive back to Lavender Shores. Screw the car, with the levels of adrenaline coursing through my blood, I could just run.

Before the thought had fully formed, I discarded it. Even if I didn’t like this idea, I couldn’t let my agent down. I had committed to it. Sure, she’d used about every manipulative tactic in the world to get me to sign on for this particular career suicide, but I was the schmuck who’d agreed.

The exit sign winked. Literally. Like it could read my mind and knew I needed a little encouragement. And it had a point. Becca’s argument was that no matter how this played out, it was going to rock the romance-fiction world. It didn’t matter if it was well received or the scandal of the century. I was certain she was hoping for the latter. There was a lot of cash to be made amid the drama. So maybe I really could do something that gave us both what we wanted.

The exit sign winked again. It seemed to agree with the plan beginning to form. I really could steal away. I wasn’t the most famous author in the room, but a huge portion of the crowd had come to meet me. My first public appearance in my entire writing career. Surely disappearing and pulling a no-show would cause enough drama to satisfy Becca’s plan.

After a third wink, I realized the exit sign was in the midst of a malfunction, not offering clairvoyant support.

I looked back at the booth; a semitruck-sized banner with Ginger Peach’s signature was draped behind the table. In the few moments I’d taken to consider fleeing, the crowd in front of the panel had grown. Becca had been right; this would be big. However it went. I was going to end up on many readers’ blacklists, but the scandal would attract many more new ones.

Whatever. I didn’t need an exit sign’s approval to bail. This had been a horrible idea. The king of horrible ideas. I hardly liked leaving my house. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in the middle of a conference, be the center of hundreds of people’s attention, and shatter their illusion about their favorite author.

Making a final decision, I scanned the space for Becca. If she saw me heading toward the exit, I had no doubt she’d throw anyone out of her way and tackle me like she belonged in the NFL, seven-inch red stilettos or not. I didn’t see her, which was a bit of a miracle as she was always ten places at once. Time to make my move.

I took three whole steps to freedom, when a loud catcall filled the space, promptly followed by countless screams, whistles, and cheers. I turned automatically toward the disruption. A smaller crowd made a semicircle in front of Cheryl Lee’s booth. At the noise, many of the members of the Ginger Peach posse turned their attention there as well, several starting to walk over.

Then I saw why. And once I did, I couldn’t blame them. Nor did my feet remember that they had running away to do. Sprawled across the back of Cheryl Lee’s booth, was a banner a quarter the size of Ginger’s. It had Cheryl’s signature in neon pink, but the most prominent display was a row of seven book covers, each with the same nearly naked gorgeous man. In front of the banner, on top of the table where Cheryl Lee was signing autographs, a man raised his arms in the air and waggled his fingers, eliciting more screams from the crowd. He was just as stunning in real life as he was on the cover of her books. When the crowd had gotten rowdy enough, his smile turned devilish. He lowered his arms and began to pull off his fitted black T-shirt with the skill of a stripper. An expensive stripper. At that point, I was certain the screams broke the sound barrier and somewhere in the building, a wall of glass probably shattered.

And once again, I couldn’t blame them.

The man was walking sex. Which was a cliché so overused I refuse to put it in my own writing. But it really was the most apt descriptor for him. I couldn’t tell from where I stood how tall he was—maybe a couple of inches shorter than me, but at least six feet. Probably in his late twenties or early thirties, but still he managed to look like the all-American frat boy, football player, surfer, without looking like he was trying. Dark blond hair, flashing eyes—though I was too far away to catch the color—and chiseled jaw with a light dusting of scruff. He tossed the T-shirt into the crowd and rolled his hips. And that body. That body. Every inch smooth, every inch bulging muscle without looking like a steroid meathead, his skin a healthy glowing tan.

Standing in awe, I watched as he worked the crowd, walking back and forth across the table, reaching down to touch women’s hands, flexing, grinning, making more suggestive movements with his hips. He even made the cargo shorts he was wearing sexy, which I wouldn’t have believed possible.

The man clearly knew he was hot. He also clearly enjoyed everyone’s awareness of that fact. He made it look like it was killing him not to drop the god-awful cargo pants and give everyone what they really wanted. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to a club, but if the go-go boys had looked like that, I might still have been there. He did the impossible. He strutted and gyrated around as if he was the hottest man to ever walk the earth, yet he smiled and laughed from time to time at something one of the closer fans said. He looked friendly and approachable. And like he was having just as much fun as all the women were.

He knelt, listening to something one of the women said, laughed again, and then stood. Maybe feeling my stare from across the room, his eyes flashed up to meet mine. Though that was a ridiculous notion; there were hundreds of gazes following him. No way he could feel mine. But he halted, just for a heartbeat. The only glitch I’d seen in his performance, if that was what it was.

He gave a smile and a wink, somehow managing to not look like a douchebag, and again astounding me with his ability to do the unthinkable. Then he refocused on the crowd, did a couple more passes across the table, and hopped down.

“Well, now that we’re done with that display, and what a display it was.” Becca’s voice cut through the noise. I glanced over at the booth, and there she was, with a mic in hand. Wonderful. Though her smile was bright and her voice chipper, I could tell from the strain in her eyes that she was annoyed at Cheryl Lee having her cover model prance around when Ginger Peach was getting ready to make her public debut. “It’s time to meet the author behind the magic. It doesn’t matter if the story is set in Seventeenth-century England, a local coffee shop, a werewolf den, or the backside of the moon, a Ginger Peach romance will sweep your heart away and make your toes curl.”

As she spoke, a murmur washed through the crowd, and they began to wander back over to Ginger Peach’s booth. Becca waved them forward, continuing to sing the accolades of her client. I quit listening, instead finding the exit sign. It had gone dark. No more winking. I wasn’t sure if it was telling me that escape was no longer an option or that I was getting ready to commit career suicide.

 Shit.

“All right, ladies...” Becca faltered momentarily but quickly upped the charm, “and gentlemen—I see a few of you romantic sorts out there.” She took a step back and motioned toward the empty seat. “I give you… Ginger Peach!”

The crowd cheered once more, as loud as they had for the cover model, but with less sexual energy. I began to walk through the crowd toward the booth. It wasn’t enough for Becca to simply have me show up and make my first appearance. No, apparently we had to make a show of it. As I squeezed by person after person, my level of feeling like a sellout reached rock-star status. The excited cheers shifted to confused murmurs when no one emerged from behind the banner to take their place in Ginger Peach’s chair. I continued my winding path, finally reaching the end of the crowd, then walked around the table, glared at Becca, and sat down.

I swallowed, then took a shaky breath. “Hi—”

Becca shoved the microphone closer to my mouth. I couldn’t glare at her again since I was staring at the crowd in utter terror. This was so much worse than I’d imagined. In my mental pictures, this moment had been horrid. All eyes were on me, most staring at me in confusion, some looking like I was taking a shit by sitting in their favorite author’s chair. A few of them had lightbulbs of realization beginning to flicker.

It was too late to run now.

“Hi, everyone. I’m Ginger Peach. Thank you so much for being here.”

There was a loud whisper of gasps and readers sucking in their breaths. A few hands went over hearts and mouths. Then silence fell.

There were other things to say. Becca and I had rehearsed for what felt like hours. But I couldn’t remember a one.

Becca kicked the leg of my chair but wasn’t successful in kick-starting my memory or ability to speak. The crowd looked like a horde of zombies. Near the back, the cover model watched. I noticed him in time to see his expression shift from surprise to utter pleasure. I could swear he was laughing. But not in a cruel way, more like I had given him the best gift possible.

It seemed he was more than happy to be entertained by the shitshow that was Lamont Price. Er… Ginger Peach. Or whoever the hell I was.

Becca leaned over my shoulder, ripping the microphone out of its holder. “Any questions anyone?”

Hands shot in the air all over the crowd, and the silence was broken. If they looked like zombies when they were silent, it was nothing compared to the onslaught. I should’ve run when I’d had the chance.

The next several hours were ones that I would never get back. And not like a waste-of-time sort of way, but more of an “I drank half a jar of moonshine and blacked out” variety—though there was no alcohol involved.

I’m positive I answered some questions, probably in English since that’s the only language I know, but I can’t really be sure. Then Becca took charge of the dog and pony show. The panel was only scheduled for twenty minutes, but they wouldn’t leave. Person after person came up with stacks of books, asking for autographs. Asking me endless questions for which I had no idea how or if I answered. Everyone seemed nice and kind, though. Again, looking back, I couldn’t be sure that wasn’t a disappointment to Becca. Someone tossing a glass of water in my face would’ve made the scandal even bigger. I vaguely remember changing into a different suit for the evening party, and then I was back. Nameless face after nameless face, questions and comments after questions and comments. I smiled, I nodded, I hugged, I shook hands, I said words, I was in countless selfies; I lost complete track of where Lamont Price stopped and Ginger Peach began. I was a trained monkey. A poorly trained monkey.

It was all a blur.

Thankfully, due to the lack of moonshine, I was aware enough that once Becca got distracted an hour or so before the party was supposed to end, I made my escape. There was no exit sign, but I didn’t need one. At that point, I could’ve smelled a way out several states over.

I emerged into the hotel lobby. My intention had been to go back to my room, but Becca would think to look there. I glanced at the bar. She’d look there as well. Without another thought, I turned on my heels, then headed out the front door. And saw the salvation of the valet attendant. “Can you please point me to a bar within walking distance.”

The tuxedoed teenager looked at me like I’d lost my mind. He pointed back to the entrance. “You just passed one, and it’s definitely in walking distance.”

“No, thank you but a bar outside the hotel, please.” I don’t know why I was asking him. I could just pull out my phone and type in nearest bar. But I was frazzled.

He pointed again, this time down the curved entrance of the hotel and across the street. “City Grille is about two blocks that way. They got a bar. And good burgers. You’ll be a little out of place in a suit, though.”

Where wasn’t I out of place? “Thanks, man.” I nodded, then turned around. I’d already left the hotel premises before I’d realized I probably should have tipped the kid. Oh well. Just add rude to my list of descriptors for the day.

I paused when I reached City Grille. The kid wasn’t joking. The suit was out of place. It looked like the same would be said of a health inspector. However, that guaranteed none of the romance conference attendees would darken the doors of this place. Perfect.

I walked in, hidden at last. If anybody dared to look over at me, I might’ve felt as on display as I had earlier. Well, no, not quite. No one did. So whether I fit in or not in my suit didn’t really matter.

I headed toward the bar, looking for an empty seat. Finding one, I made my way, then halted. The man beside the barstool was wearing a suit as well. And he was turning around to look at me.

He might have been pure sex halfway naked as he’d gyrated in front of a crowd, but he was movie-star classic in a suit. I didn’t even care about suits, but he looked like he could be a James Bond. And suddenly, I desperately wanted to be a Bond girl.

Whoa. Whoa—when was the last time I’d felt like that? I didn’t even have a memory. I was aware of attractive people all the time, but I’d managed to kill my sex drive eons ago. At the sight of him, I discovered some little aspect had survived the extermination.

He smiled and gave a little wave, making me realize I’d been standing there for far too long and most definitely looked like I was mid-aneurysm. “Come sit by me. Please. I felt a little out of place with this suit, but I hadn’t wanted to take the time to change. I had to get out of there.”

My nerves spiking, I slid in next to him. I hadn’t noticed him at the party. “Tell me about it. I thought my agent was never going to look away long enough for me to take off.”

“Doesn’t your agent work for you and not the other way around?”

I shrugged. “You know, I think that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

The bartender walked by, and the model reached out to stop him. “Hey, I’m getting a drink for a friend here.” He tipped his foam-filled glass at me. “Beer work for you? They don’t have anything craft but desperate times and all.”

“You don’t need to get me—”

He cut me off with a look.

He wanted to buy me a beer? “Sure, whatever kind you have is great.”

The bartender didn’t wait for further confirmation but was back with the beer before I’d even gotten out of my jacket.

“Wow, dude. You’ve got some guns.”

“Wha—” Oh, guns. Right. Duh. “Uhm, thanks. You, ah… do too.”

He gave an unconcerned expression. “Part of the job. But you’re a writer. I wouldn’t expect a body like that on somebody pounding keys all day. But shit, you’re totally stacked.”

Was he flirting? No. Not flirting. Straight guys always commented on muscles and stuff, didn’t they? And they most definitely said things like dude and stacked and guns. At least when I wrote straight guys into romances they did.

I hadn’t a clue how to respond. So I changed the subject. “I’m surprised my agent didn’t force me to bring one of the cover models. I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

“Well, I know some authors don’t like it. They feel like the writers who bring models are trying to steal attention away.” He shrugged. “Which, I guess, they are. It worked for Cheryl today, in any case.” He shot a wicked smile. “At least until you did your thing. That was epic! Totally epic.” He pulled out his phone. “Have you checked out Twitter? You’re practically trending. And with this crowd you are. Everything’s all about Ginger Peach being a man. The whole romance world is fighting. Half of them saying they’re never going to read your work again, the other half defending your rights to use your pen name however you want. You’re going to sell like gangbusters for the next several months.”

I glanced at his screen but only caught a few lines before looking up at him. And oh, look at that—green. His eyes were crystalline green. I gave a little shake of my head.

“Well, I know that’s what my agent wanted. To be honest, makes me a little nauseous. It just feels icky.”

“Nah.” He smacked me on the shoulder. “It’s part of the game. You do what you gotta do.”

Okay, definitely straight. With a smack on the shoulder like that. And his touch didn’t linger at all. Although, what was I thinking? Just because he wasn’t flirting with me didn’t mean he wasn’t gay. Up close I realized he was as young as I’d thought. Maybe twenty-eight, if I squinted. Maybe. Probably more like twenty-four. Most twenty-four-year-olds aren’t hunting down forty-five-year-old men to hook up with. And while I was on that train of thought, and, what was I thinking? There was not going to be hooking up, regardless of whether the guy was twenty-four or forty-four.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

 That threw me off. Not that it would take much after the shithole of the day. If I’d ever met this man before, I wouldn’t have forgotten. No possible way. Dead libido or not. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

He chuckled, straight, brilliant white teeth flashing, as he shook his head. “No, we haven’t. But I am on the cover of one of your books. The Alpha’s Lust.” He held out his hands. “I’m your werewolf, apparently.”

I sucked in a breath and felt my cheeks heat. Now that he said it, I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t placed him. The publisher had gotten the cover for that particular book before I’d even written half. After seeing his image, writing the sex scenes had been a challenge. Well, not a challenge, but more inspired. That was definitely not something I could tell him, though. Instead I stuck out my hand. “Then I guess I need to say thank you. That’s one of my bestsellers. And I have no doubt because of the cover.”

“You’re most welcome.” He took my hand, gave it a shake, and this time he held on for a heartbeat. At least I thought he did. “It’s nice to finally meet the famous Miss Ginger Peach in person.”

I flinched. “Oh shit, I didn’t even introduce myself, did I? My real name is Lamont Price. I’m not actually Gin—” Goddammit. “Never mind, you probably figured that out.”

He laughed again. And just like when he had been onstage, though he was completely clothed, he seemed utterly at ease, completely confident, and enjoying simply being alive. “Yes, I figured you were a little bit too rugged to actually pull off Ginger Peach, unless your parents were abnormally cruel.”

I could almost see my father naming me that as a baby. It wouldn’t have been meant to be cruel. But it for sure sounded like something he would’ve done. I supposed I should count my lucky stars that hadn’t been my fate. I suddenly became aware that the model wasn’t offering his name in return. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional or just an oversight. “And you? Do you have a name?”

Hesitation. There was definitely hesitation. And the first shadow I’d seen crossed his features. It disappeared fairly quickly, though. “Tyler.” He stuck out his hand again, all charm returning. “I’m Tyler Dixon. Nice to meet you, Lamont.”

And again, I could’ve sworn he held my hand a little longer than typical.

Though it made absolutely no sense, and though I was so out of practice that even training wheels wouldn’t have kept me from a crash and burn, I was pretty certain Tyler was attracted to me.

Tyler. The name fit him. I liked it.

And holy shit, I almost said that out loud.

His eyes widened. “Shit. Um….” He looked a bit flustered. “That’s my real name, but my working name is Tate Dallas. So if you hear that name, that’s also who I am. My version of a pen name. No one here, except for Cheryl Lee, knows my real name.”

“No problem. If it comes up, I’ll refer to you as Tate.” I could swear he hadn’t meant to tell me his real name. Not that I had any room to judge on that. “Well, after today I suppose you can all call me Lamont or Ginger, now that we’re one and the same.” God, that sounded stupid. Telling the hot guy to call me Ginger.

Like an answer from heaven, my phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out. It really was an answer to a prayer, as I didn’t even need to make up an excuse. “Sorry, text from my dad. He knew I was nervous about today. I’m sure he’s been waiting by the phone.”

“No big deal. Please, answer him.”

Most of the time I would never be that rude, but I needed the distraction.

Hey son! Since I haven’t heard from you, I’m going to assume you took my advice and went to the party this evening. Please don’t check your phone. You’d better be dancing. See you when you’re back in town at the baby shower. And, just so you know, I have a surprise for you.

I groaned. “Well, shit.” I knew exactly what that meant. What it always meant.

“Your dad not okay?”

I glanced at Tyler. I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone. “Oh, no. There’s just a family thing, and my father is going to try to set me up. Again.” Wow, I really had been off guard if I was admitting that so easily.

Tyler’s brows popped. “You’re single?”

Strange, I thought that was tattooed on my forehead. “Yes, which is something my family can’t seem to accept.” And this was the very last thing I wanted to talk about with the magnificent male specimen of the cover model variety. Not that I had anything else to talk about, or that it mattered what he thought of me ultimately. I pulled an overused note out of my playbook and turned the conversation to him. “So, do you do this kind of thing a lot? Travel to book conventions and such? Do you do other types of modeling?”

Tyler wasn’t fazed by the abrupt switch. “I do several types of modeling, but a fair amount of book covers.” He took a sip of beer and then leaned his elbow on the bar. I coveted his ability to look so at ease. “I actually really like doing these conventions. Unless you’re doing runway, which I haven’t done much of, you don’t get the live interaction with fans and such. It’s nice. Although, it can wear you down pretty quick, so I make sure I steal away at least one hour of the day, even put it in my contract. Today was the busiest day, so I didn’t get that hour until right now.”

“You only get an hour break each day? What do you do the rest of the time? You don’t have to go to every panel.”

He shook his head. “No, but I do have to stay within so many feet of my author. And part of her brand for the weekend. Or in Cheryl’s case, part of her brand of her career. I’m on nearly every one of her book covers. I have my own room, but it’s even in the contract that I’m not allowed to bring anyone else in there, if you know what I mean. I belong to her brand. Period.”

Well, shit. Him mentioning having someone in his hotel room did something to me. Or at least did something to make my pants tighter.

Ridiculous. He said he couldn’t bring someone to his room. And even if he could, it wouldn’t be me.

But under contract? I’d never heard of such a thing. Maybe it was commonplace, maybe it wasn’t. With this being my first conference, I didn’t know how any of it worked. But that sounded strange and felt a little gross. Although I really wasn’t sure why. Tyler was getting paid, so it wasn’t like he was being forced to do anything against his will. “So you get paid by the hour for just being here?”

“Yeah.” Tyler nodded. “Pretty sweet deal. It’s not just book conventions. Sometimes there’s parties here in LA that they need to have….” He grimaced. “Sorry, I know this is going to sound arrogant and I don’t mean it that way, it is just what it is. But sometimes the parties need to have a certain amount of attractive people, so they pay people like me to attend.” Another shrug. “I mean, what other kind of job can you get where you get paid to go to parties, drink champagne, or take your shirt off in front of a bunch of romance readers?”

“I’ve never heard of getting paid to go to parties.” LA was a weird place. So different from Lavender Shores. When the notion hit me, I literally sat up straighter and turned to face Tyler. Too quickly to play it off as casual. Even so, I stopped myself from actually saying the words, realizing how they would sound.

Tyler flinched at my sudden movement but smiled good-naturedly. “Looks like someone just had a idea.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t play it off, but I didn’t have to admit what I was thinking either. “No, sorry, stupid idea.”

“I might be a model, Lamont, but it doesn’t mean my brain is empty. I can put two and two together pretty quickly.” He looked at me through narrowed eyes, and any degree of flirting I thought I’d picked up on was gone, maybe it hadn’t been there.” Are you in need of my services?”

He’d read my mind. “Your services?” Surely he couldn’t actually be okay with what I was thinking. Then I realized. Dear God, I was so stupid. Of course that’s not what he meant. I shook my head. “No, actually. I doubt I’ll do another conference in a long time, if ever.” Well, shit, now it sounded like I was rejecting him or felt I was better than him or something. “But, if I ever do go to a different conference, I’ll talk to my agent and see if having you be part of our booth would be doable. If nothing else, it would sure sell a lot more copies of The Alpha’s Lust.”

Tyler slouched, almost looking disappointed. “Oh, for some reason I thought maybe you had an event you needed me to show up at. Maybe that thing for your family. You know, so you don’t have to deal with being set up one more time.”

I stared at him, not even trying to mask my reaction. That was exactly what had flicked through my mind. The crazy, disrespectful, absolutely insane idea. “You would do that?”

“Sure. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Lots of people need to have a boyfriend for the weekend.

Well, holy shit.