Nonsense—nothing but gobbledygook. It’s no different than believing in the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. Bottom line—it’s all made up, a fantasy that the entire female population has been force-fed since birth. So few people ever get anything that even vaguely resembles the fairytale, and I know for damn sure that I’m one of the people that will never have anything like that.

I used to devour romance novels like they were vitamins, but after that day with Ricky and his friends, I left all that behind me. I haven’t touched a romance novel since then. The only books I picked up between then and now were textbooks for school. In my mind, reading was something that gave me false hope, and that made me ripe to be destroyed by Ricky and his friends. I’m a realist now, through and through.

After leaving Small Towne and landing in California, I enrolled in school. I was totally lost because I had no clue what I wanted to do, so I ended up getting a Business Degree. When I was at Bronson University I’d been enrolled as an English major. Back then I’d believed that some day I’d be writing books of my own—an idea which makes me laugh now. Right or wrong, I feel that all the reading I did warped my brain and made me a total idiot.

Meanwhile, my business degree hasn’t been what you would call a barnburner, and I have to admit that I’m sort of at loose ends in that department. The bottom line is that I’ve got it good and I know it. Three years ago I lucked into a great job as the chief scheduling secretary for one of the biggest building firms in the world, Hart International, but I’m not sure that’s what I want to do for the next forty years. The salary I make at Hart is almost double what I’d make anywhere else and I absolutely love the company, so leaving isn’t really on the agenda. The irony is that if I lived in Small Towne and made what I make at Hart, I’d be one of the most successful people there. Here in LA, I’m comfortable but not enough to buy my own house because real estate here is insane.

It doesn’t matter—I’d choose Los Angeles over Small Towne any day, especially working at Hart International.

Hart is a family business and I’ve gotten close with one of the owners. Not just close—she’s become my mentor, really. Sabrina’s husband is the President of the company—something you would assume means that they’re rich assholes that have no time for people like me who are fairly low on the company totem pole—but they couldn’t be nicer. It’s clear that Sabrina knew that I needed some guidance because she took me under her wing and she’s been gently trying to encourage me to go back to school. It’s a conundrum because Hart pays for employees to further their education, but I have no idea what I would go for.

It’s Sabrina that talked me into coming to this club. She and her ridiculously hot husband, Dante, reserved the VIP section for friends and family tonight in order to celebrate their brother Damien’s birthday. It seemed like a weird choice because every one of the family members is married, but Sabrina’s blush as she explained that all of the men love to dance with their women pretty much explained what was really going on.

I’m actually expending effort not to get all swoony over the fact that these people have all been married for quite a while—Sabrina and Dante are going on six years and everyone else in their family have been married for at least four—and yet here they are getting sexy with each other at a club. If they weren’t so nice, I’d be pissed about how damn lucky they are.

Even with the VIP area completely blocked off for this event, it’s still close quarters. The Harts aren’t what you would call a small family and their extended family is enormous. Add in friends and there’s a bit of a crowd for me to navigate carefully as I make my way to the bar. Clubbing might not be my thing but Sabrina insisted that I wear something sexy if for no other reason than to make myself feel good—which is why I’m making my way through the crowd in four inch spike Louboutins that she bought me for my birthday.

That crazy woman insists that a sexy pair of high heels can change your life. For me that change is likely going to result in me spending time with a chiropractor. Still, I can’t lie—when I saw the Louboutin logo on the box and then got a load of the red-bottomed heels, my heart skipped a few beats. I’ll never make enough money to love shoes as much as Sabrina Hart does, but I have to admit . . . these shoes kick serious ass.

The bartenders in the VIP section are incredibly attentive and within sixty seconds of placing my order I’ve got a chocolate martini in my hand courtesy of a girl who looks like she should be a runway model as opposed to a bartender. Color me skeptical that the drink is going to be even halfway decent. Taking a sip, I let out a low moan of pure pleasure as the perfect flavor spreads across my tongue and I mentally scold myself for judging a book by its cover. She isn’t just a bartender—she’s a mixologist.

I hear a groan at the same moment that I feel someone standing right at my back. It sends a shiver through me as I lower my drink.

“I’ve never wanted a chocolate drink before,” a deep and incredibly sexy voice growls against my ear, “but listening to that moan made me want ninety of them.”

I have no explanation for why my nipples immediately become so hard that they could chip diamonds, nor do I know why I’ve got goose bumps. I’m reasonably sure that the reason my panties are damp is because whoever he is, he smells like liquid sex. Straightening my back and mentally erecting my barriers, I turn to tell the man with the fuck me voice to take a hike.

As soon as I’m turned to him, I realize my error. He was too close to begin with and now, I’m right against him, looking at a pair of sexy as sin lips. Suddenly my own feel desert dry and I lick them as I continue staring at his mouth and jaw line. Sweet holy hell—this man’s DNA could be bottled and sold for millions. I’m not even seeing all of his face and already I know that’s he’s beautiful.

A jostling from behind pushes him forward forcing us up against each other—enough so that I can feel that he’s semi hard. My breath leaves me in a whoosh, as my panties get even wetter, and my inner voice is now screaming at me to run—far and fast. Taking a deep breath I raise my free hand and set it on his chest, pushing him back from me. “Don’t touch me,” I snap.

Lifting his hands to his side so that I can see them he says, “Don’t be angry, Beautiful. I didn’t mean to close in on you like that. I just wanted to meet you.”

I am liquid just from listening to the husky tone of his voice, and it both annoys and terrifies me. Lifting my eyes up to check out the rest of his features, I shiver as I get a good look at the man before me. He’s well over six feet tall with jet-black hair and cognac colored eyes that are sending a very sexual message. Licking my lips, I try to think of something to say, then stop dead when my brain finally engages and I realize that I’m staring at Exton freaking Alexander.

Yes, you read that correctly.

I am face to face with one of the biggest playboys in Hollywood, Exton Alexander. Last month the gossip that was literally everywhere claimed that he left a screening of the latest movie he wrote with ten—yes, ten—girls in tow.

Once a ridiculously adorable teen actor, Exton went from cute to sexy near overnight. After dropping out of the public eye for a few years to go to college, he came back as a screenwriter in his early twenties. He got a lot of buzz for his first movie, an Indie film that won awards at Sundance. About three months after that, the bottom dropped out when some girl he’d had sex with secretly recorded it and sold it to an Internet porn company.

Exton sued right away, but once it was out, that was that. The court case went on for a long time, but in the end he was boxed in and had to settle. Some industrious person in a promotional department capitalized on the fact that Exton’s full name is Exton Xavier Alexander and dubbed him Triple X. Within six months Taken by Triple X was the most downloaded file on the Internet—quadrupling what Kim Kardashian’s sex tape had done.