I like him, I think.

More than that, I could love him.

The thought churns up that undercurrent of panic, making it rise to the top. Turning my skin cold and prickly.

The last time I fell for a guy, I got my heart ripped out and stomped upon. Bryan Raine, a narcissistic asshole who was a major catalyst for The Plan. A man who pulled me in and twisted me up.

Granted, Bryan Raine isn’t even worthy to lick Ryan’s boots, but when you get down to it, my panic isn’t about Ryan. It’s about me.

And I fucked up.

No matter how amazing these last few hours were—no matter how wonderful he made me feel—I blew it big-time. Like I had with Raine. Like I had with so many guys.

I mean, for fuck’s sake, all I asked of myself was that I go home and get my shit together. And then one hot guy tells me he wants me in his bed, and I start panting like a bitch in heat.

Pathetic.

Frustrated and angry with myself, I stand up. My phone is on the bedside table, and I can see on the lock screen that I’ve missed a call. I take it with me to the bathroom, and as I’m in there I listen to the voice message. It’s from Georgia Myers, the head of programming for the network television affiliate I’d auditioned for in Dallas.

I listen, my heart pounding faster and faster, as she offers me the job.

“I understand you’re currently out of town, but I’m still hoping that you can start right away. This is a little unorthodox, but our public relations director used to work in Los Angeles, and she has some contacts in the film industry. You may be aware that the new Derrick Johnson movie is filming in Las Vegas,” she adds, referring to the hottest new director in town. “We’ve actually been granted access to some of the cast. It’s a pretty big coup for a local affiliate station, and we’re very excited by the opportunity.”

She continues, asking me to call and let her know if I can take the job and, if so, if I can get to Vegas quickly. She’ll find out who among the cast is available for an interview and e-mail me the research material.

That pounding in my chest increases as my panic takes on a new quality. A this-is-a-fucking-awesome-opportunity I-don’t-want-to-screw-it-up quality.

I won’t, I think. I can’t.

I can do this job. I look good on camera. I’m comfortable talking with people. This is the kind of job I want. The kind of job I need.

It’s the kind of job in which I can prove myself—and the kind of job that can lead me right back to Los Angeles when I’m clear.

In other words, it’s step one of The Plan already checked off the list.

I start to race out of the bathroom, eager to tell Ryan—and then I pull myself up short in the doorway. What the hell am I doing?

I could get used to this, I’d thought as I slid out of bed earlier.

And damn me all to hell, it was true. I could get used to it. Already he’s filled my head and knocked me off center. Already, he is the first person I wanted to share good news with.

Oh, god. Oh, god. I really have fucked up and good. I should have walked away. Should have told him no.

But I’m a goddamn wimp who can’t even stick to her own decisions. Who gets so twisted up by a man she can’t even manage to follow her own path.

Worse than that, I let him take control. I let him get close. I dropped my shields and surrendered totally.

I’ve given him the power to hurt me—and I know goddamn well that eventually he will do just that.

They always do.

How had I screwed it up so badly? I’d gone from being determined to stand strong and get my shit together to drowning in the residue of all my bad choices.

I look at the man sleeping soundly in the bed. I know what will happen when he wakes. He will soothe my tears, tell me it will be okay. He’ll heal my wounds with kisses, and before I know it, I’ll be on my back with his cock inside me, my job and my plan all but forgotten.

I tell myself I am strong enough to resist. That I will tell him and then simply walk away.

But I know better. I want him—his touch, his kisses. If he wakes, I will stay.

And I will hate myself—and him—for it.

I turn, lost, and stumble back to the bathroom counter. I blink back tears and stare at my reflection. “Do something,” I say to the girl who looks back at me. “Fix this.”

And so I do the only thing I can think to do—I run.

Chapter Six

I’m sorry.

That’s all I wrote on the note that I left on the bedside table. I wanted to say more, but I’m not good at saying the words, and I’m even worse at psychoanalyzing myself.

And I’m certain that I had to go—I have to get my shit together, and you scare the crap out of me wouldn’t have been the best approach, even if it was true.

I’ve been driving for two hours now, and the sun has long since disappeared behind the San Bernardino mountains that fill my rearview mirror.

I’d made my escape quietly, wearing only the jeans and T-shirt that I’d left in the bathroom, and taking only my purse and phone. I’d brought a suitcase with me to California, of course, and my suite was littered with shopping bags. But I hadn’t bothered with any of that because there was no way for me to pack and not wake up Ryan.

So I’d run, knowing full well that I could call Gregory, Damien’s valet, in the morning and have him gather my things and ship them to my parents in Texas.

As for the Vegas job—well, I had makeup in my purse, but I guess I’d just have to suck it up and shop for clothes. I figured that counted as retail therapy, and even considering the damage that I would undoubtedly do to my credit card, it would be cheaper than a round of sessions with a shrink.

I’d taken the Ferrari from where Damien had left it for me in his impressive underground garage. It had taken concentration to get out of Malibu because I tend to get turned around on all the twisting roads, but as soon as I hit the highway, I started thinking about Ryan. About leaving.

About the way he made me feel.

Twice, I reached for my phone, then yanked my hand back before I could close my fingers tight around it. When I reached for it a third time, I snatched it up, then powered the damn thing off and tossed it in the glove box.

Out of sight, out of mind. Except while that worked to stifle the urge to call him, it did nothing to stifle the thoughts and memories and emotions that rattled in my head. The memory of his mouth upon me, his cock inside me. The image of his face as he gazed at me with such tenderness. My own admonitions telling me to run—to get clear. Ryan’s stern pronouncement that he liked me wild—but that he wouldn’t let me walk.

But I did walk—hell, I did more than walk. I ran.

And now, on the road, I am second-guessing myself all over again.

Fuck it.

I’ve been listening to my own thoughts for two hours and I can’t stand it anymore. I check the mirrors to confirm that I’m the only car on this stretch of Interstate 15, then snatch my phone out of the glove box and power it back on.

I fiddle with the radio until I finally figure out how to set it for auxiliary and turn on Bluetooth. A few more adjustments, and I’m jamming to one of the many playlists I keep on my phone. A mix of classic and new rock, along with a few heavy metal songs to add a little pop to the mix. It’s loud enough and rough enough to keep me from thinking—and that is exactly what I want.