No. Not party. “Charity event,” as these A-listers liked to call their swanky affairs.
Whatever.
Mila Brightman’s thumbs glided over the keys with remembered ease.
I will let u know.
C’mon, Mila. He’s gorgeous and newly single.
Perfect. Just what she needed. A charity date to go with the charity event. She grinned at her own witticism. Okay, so her mental play on words hadn’t been all that funny. But, then again, neither was this party.
He’s ur bro. You have to say that. Does he even know u r trying to set him up on a date?
Not yet. But it’ll be fine. And he is cute. Promise.
She hadn’t even told him yet. Mila rolled her eyes, thumbs already responding.
That’s what u said about the last guy.
She’d let her new friend Freya Rothsberg talk her into going on a different blind date a week ago. That particular man had been good-looking all right, but their date had stalled when he’d road-raged his way down Hollywood Boulevard. She’d ended up hopping out of the car at a stoplight and hailing a cab to take her home.
This is different. PROMISE.
Uh-oh. Her friend had used the word promise twice in a row. This time in caps. Never a good sign. Freya was on the other side of the room, waiting for her supposedly gorgeous brother to arrive. Time to head her off at the pass. Maybe she could use humor to soften the blow.
With my luck ur bro is probably short and squatty. A real toad.
The screen stayed blank for almost a minute, and Mila wondered if she’d offended her friend. Then it lit up.
A toad? Really?
A smiley face followed the words. Whew! Not offended.
Yep. T.O.A.D. Warts and all.
Another long pause. Maybe the Wi-Fi reception in the hotel ballroom was glitching or something.
Why don’t you look up and see?
Something about those words caused a shiver to ripple across her midsection. Swallowing, she glanced over the top of her screen.
Freya stood right in front of her. Eyes wide. Mouthing something. “I’m sorry.”
In that instant, Mila realized her friend was no longer holding a cell phone. Neither was she alone. And the person standing beside her was neither short nor squatty.
Oh. My. God. Her thumbs pretend-typed the words as they sprinted through her head.
The man in the tuxedo was tall. Very tall. And gorgeous?
Yes. Oh, yes. He was also holding something up, turning the object to face her.
A phone—with all Mila’s text messages surrounded by a bold blue bubble. The air left her lungs, and she struggled to breathe.
He’d read what she’d written. And suddenly the banter didn’t seem quite so innocent. Or funny.
Before she could apologize, one side of the man’s mouth tilted up, the movement carving out several craggy lines in his face. If she were a swooner she’d have keeled over by now.
“You know what they say about kissing toads. One of them might just turn out to be a prince.”
Her brain fought to process anything other than that low sexy tone. Although she could have sworn the word “kiss” had been in there somewhere. At least, she hoped it had.
She gulped, her eyes straying back to his mouth just as the other side tipped to form a smile that scorched across her senses. If she moved she feared she’d crumple into a pile of ash.
As if reading her thoughts, he passed the phone back to Freya, his gaze never leaving Mila’s face. “Shall we test that theory?”
“Th-theory?”
Before she knew what was happening, he’d swept her out onto the dance floor and off her feet. And when his kiss came a few hours later, just as the party was winding down, it was indeed magical. Only there was no need for any kind of transformation. Because James Evan Rothsberg already looked like a prince. A prince whose kiss was every bit as deadly as his smile.
Right then and there Mila knew, without a doubt, her world would never be the same.
Present day
BZZZZZZ...
No matter how many different ringtones James tried—and it seemed like he’d tried them all—he still hated receiving text messages. The flat sound of his current tone was no different. His pulse sped up and his throat went dry, even though he knew it wasn’t from Mila.
Losing the fun, sexy messages they’d used to exchange had been one of the hardest adjustments he’d had to make after calling off the wedding, and his no-texting rule was his way of trying to deal with that.
He shook himself from his stupor. Six years had changed nothing. No matter how right he’d been to break off their engagement, he couldn’t blot out the image of the horror in his ex-fiancée’s gorgeous hazel eyes when she’d realized it was over.
So were the intimate texts. All texts, in fact, since everyone around him was aware that he preferred actual phone calls to typed messages.
Besides, Mila had taken off to parts unknown soon after he’d skipped out on her, going back to Brazil, where she’d been doing relief work among indigenous people.
Until now.
He’d had a damned good reason for leaving her at the altar: a panicked phone call from a former girlfriend telling him she was pregnant. And an unexpected betrayal by his father.
It didn’t matter now that the whole thing had been a setup. That deception had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Mila had been saved from being dragged into the reality that was his family, with its arguments and its never-ending scandals. His famous parents had been the darlings of the paparazzi for that very reason—even after their divorce years ago.
Mila might not have seen it at the time, but surely in the years since then she’d come to realize the narrow escape she’d had.
He’d never tried to contact her, even after he’d discovered what Cindy had done.
The phone sent him a reminder buzz.
He forced himself to look down at the screen as he exited his car along with the damned photographer the clinic had made him bring along to this meeting. The text was from Freya. The no-text rule had become a running joke with her. She would text him just because she knew how much he hated it. To try to provoke him to answer. It never worked. He always responded with a phone call. Or not at all.
It would seem she was still at it. And under the circumstances it was in extremely poor taste.
We saw you pull up. Waiting just inside.
We. That could only mean one thing. Freya wasn’t alone inside that tiny building. Although he’d known she wouldn’t be.
Hell. He’d hoped to have a moment or two to get his thoughts together, although he’d had plenty of time to prepare for this photo shoot. Over two months to plan his words down to the final punctuation mark.
Had he done that? No. He had not. Even during the twenty-minute drive out of the more secluded Hollywood Hills and into the city of Los Angeles itself he’d done no advance planning.
Morgan, the photographer the PR department had contracted, had been more than happy to keep up a steady stream of conversation. She might have been fishing, but James didn’t care. He was