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He is an A-list actor. I'm a shy, curvy intern. What do we have in common? Nothing. Except I may have accidentally text him and he may have text me back.
Working for one of the top-rated PR companies in LA is a dream job. Which means I can't ruin it.
But when I see Weston Wyatt's phone number by accident on my boss's phone, I memorize it, telling myself I'll never text him.
He's older, and experienced, with millions of women swooning over his Oscar-winning performances and magazine-cover looks.
But one night, on a crazy whim, I type out a text, but I don't mean to send it. Then the touchscreen of my phone goes on the fritz.
The message sends.
I don't expect him to reply. But he does.
He even gives me a nickname. Miss Mystery ..
So I give him one right back - Mr. Hollywood.
He doesn't know who I am. But safe behind my phone, I can explore my wildest fantasies.
But women like me aren't supposed to drive A-list actors to possessive heat, jealous steaminess, or say things like. "You're mine, Alice. Nobody else's. Just mine." Does he really mean it, or are they just words?
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