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cop standing at the ready before a bust. His morose gaze then shifted to the office, as if searching for an unseen Dakota. If looks could kill, Dakota’d be dropping dead somewhere in there. Then, as if Jameson realized he’d just pissed on our parade, he pasted on a fake smile and tossed us a wink. “Like I said, no worries. I’ve got your back.”
    Now why did I think he meant that in two ways?

    Dakota Danvers had the kind of charisma that made skirts hit the floor and machismo men question their sexuality. At twenty-four, his fan base ran from tweenie-boppers to cougars. Heck, he could probably even count a few jaguars. Dark chestnut curls swept the back of his neck and he had this endearing way, which drove Des and me wild, of flicking his head to the side to get his wave of bangs out of his eyes. And those eyes … mocha brown and deeply soulful. As the moody but sensitive paranormal investigator on the CW’s most edgy show, he did most of his acting with those incredible eyes. But on the rare occasion when his character was allowed to crack a smile, it seemed as if heaven itself opened up and shone its every ray of sunshine. Hokey sounding, sure, but his dimpled grin would actually elicit a matching smile from anyone watching.
    And here I stood, grinning at him like some kind of demented dolt while Des, obviously fully recovered from her interna-hurl, shrieked and leapt into his arms.
    Arms, I might say, that bulged out of his charcoal, short-sleeved, snug-fitting V-neck Hurley tee. Sigh. The only thing more impressive than his biceps was the body-molding fit of his darkwash jeans.
    I couldn’t help but stare—no one could—but I wondered who was worse: me or Des? Tweedle Mute or Tweedle Maniac?
    Fortunately, Dakota had more than a little experience with starstruck fans. He laughingly swept Des into a hug before gently setting her a safe distance outside his personal perimeter and introducing himself.
    Me? I kept standing there— still grinning —like some kind of Botox-paralyzed fool until someone, Jameson maybe, gave me a gentle push at the small of my back.
    â€œHi,” I finally managed to say as I held my hand out formally. “I’m Aly King.”
    Dakota took my hand in his, flashed that captivating smile again, and pulled me into a hug that had me go positively woozy amidst the yummilicious mix of muscles and musk.
    Too bad my euphoria got squelched by a glowering Jameson, lurking in my peripheral vision.
    Sheesh. What was with him?
    Too quick, the hug ended. I felt empty when Dakota moved away, and then chagrined by Jameson’s silent scolding.
    â€œSo you’re the lucky winner,” Dakota said as he shoved his hands into his front pockets and hunched his shoulders over. I’d seen him do this before, on TV and in photos. At six-four he towered over everyone, and I’d often wondered if he did this to make himself seem a tad smaller and less intimidating. Then he looked at me and did that sexy little toss of his head while giving me a shy, warm smile, and I wanted to hug him all over again.
    This was the guy Jameson disliked so much?
    Here Dakota stood in all his gorgeous studliness, and instead of acting like a stereotypical Hollywood egohead, he seemed completely down-to-earth and adorably approachable.
    â€œYep, I’m the winner,” I finally said. “I could not believe it when I got the call. We”—I motioned to Des, who was gawking at Dakota like he was a prime rib steak and she’d been withering away as a contestant on Survivor —“are huge fans of the show.”
    â€œAnd of you,” Des piped in. “We’ve watched all your movies and catch all the repeats of Stars Landing .”
    Dakota raked his fingers through his hair and gave us a wry smile. “What a difference a few years make.”
    â€œYou were great as Don,” I said, not wanting him to diminish his debut role. “But