Page 37 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

Sneak Peek—Rock My World

“Hello, stranger.”

The deep, masculine voice rolls down my spine, spreading the chill of an ice cube and the burn of a branding iron. My back stiffens, yet I hold still. I don’t turn right away.

I keep facing the desk, surveying the endless shelves in the study.

The books belong to tonight’s host, someone I’ve never met—same goes for the rest of the guests.

What possessed me to come to this party?

I should’ve told my date no. But he seemed so stoked to be invited to a private Hollywood bash that I reluctantly agreed to tag along.

But no good deed goes unpunished, and now I’ve got my reckoning waiting behind me.

I inhale deeply, exhale, and finally face the owner of that voice. But no amount of controlled breathing can prepare me for the man standing before me, the one who haunts my dreams, turning them into hopeless nightmares.

Rian Phoenix—rockstar, actor, sex icon of my generation.

I fix on a point past his shoulder, not to take him in all at once. Staring at him directly is as dumb as looking at the sun. But my evasive moves are pointless. His charisma assaults me from every direction, pulling my gaze toward him like iron to a magnet.

Giving up, I scan the fitted dark T-shirt that clings to his frame tightly enough to prompt indecent thoughts.

The ripped black jeans so worn, they might’ve been through every world tour with him.

They fit him as a second skin tailored by time.

I take inventory of the silver necklace that peeks out from under the T-shirt, the leather cuff at his wrist, and the chain that dangles from his belt loop, catching the light to reveal its wear and scratches.

His boots are scuffed but expensive. And topping it all off, he’s wearing a jet-black leather jacket—lightweight, probably some designer I can’t pronounce—that hangs open, making him look even cooler.

His raven-black hair falls past his chiseled cheekbones in untamed waves.

But it’s his icy-blue eyes, now laser-focused on me, that melt my internal organs a million times faster in person than they do from behind a movie screen or from across an arena packed with thousands of people.

Because yes, I’m that pathetic and went to one—okay, three—of his concerts.

“Hi,” I squawk.

He tilts his head. “Is it my impression, or have you been snubbing me all night?”

I stare at the door that he’s blocking with his imposing frame. Yep, we’re alone and Rian Phoenix is cutting off my only escape route.

Turns out, hiding in here wasn’t the genius survival plan I thought it was. I should’ve stuck to a “blend in the crowd” approach. Easier to slip away. But now he’s found me, and the game is up.

For the first time since I spotted him across the living room, I let myself take his features in, embrace the full force of his burning star.

I allow my eyes to roam the planes of his face.

The sharp curve of his jawline shadowed by stubble I wouldn’t mind nuzzling against. His strong, straight nose that adds to the intensity of his expression, while the cute scrunch of his brows keeps him from being truly intimidating.

And then there’s that lopsided grin, pointed right at me, fully weaponized and ready to finish me off.

His eyes crinkle, making the whole of him impossible to withstand.

“I… I didn’t think you’d remember me,” I finally say.

He arches a skeptical eyebrow at that.

“I mean, you must meet so many people. You can’t remember all of them.”

“I meet a lot of people, yeah.” He crosses his arms over his toned chest and leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “I don’t get stuck in elevators for ten hours with many of them.” A pause, that smirk again. “You made a lasting impression, Josie Monroe.”

All I can say for myself is that I keep my mouth shut and don’t squawk again, or make any other embarrassing sounds, or faint—even if I’m most definitely swooning.

“Were you really not going to say hi?” he asks in that millions-of-records-sold voice of his.

I give him the slightest headshake.

He narrows his eyes, but he’s still smiling as he accuses, “So, you were snubbing me.”

“No.” I cringe in embarrassment. “More like strategically avoiding you?”

His blue eyes widen at the admission. “Why?”

It’s a simple question, and I should be able to brush it off nonchalantly, but I can’t.

I don’t really know him, but it feels like I do, and like he knows me in return.

Which makes no sense—it’s as illogical as it was that night we spent locked up together.

And even if it’s been a year, it seems like no time has passed at all.

As if the intimacy of being trapped alone has never left us even these many months later.

So, I go with the truth, like always for him. “You’re still too hot and too married.”

His jaw tenses, ticks, but it’s only a moment before the clench is released and his entire posture relaxes. “It must be some serious hotness to cause such a flight response.”

I smile at that. “Said the world-famous rockstar slash actor who every teenage girl on the planet has a poster of in their bedrooms.”

The teasing smile is back. “Every single one? I thought a few still went for Harry Styles, no?”

And now I’m full-on laughing. And see, this is the problem.

Because since I got stuck in an elevator with this man a year ago, I’ve been madly, irrationally, hopelessly in love with him.

And not the mega star, Rian Phoenix, who women all over the world fantasize about.

No, much worse, because I’m in love with Dorian.

The sarcastic, unapologetic, goofy, and still sexy-as-hell man behind the fame. The real him.

“Okay,” I concede. “We can settle for half the teenagers on the planet.”

“If you’re trying to avoid me, why come to a party for the release of my latest movie?” He changes the subject, taking me off guard. As if I needed to be any more off-kilter in his presence.

“I thought you’d still be on tour.”

“I’m on a break between cities.” His expression gets inscrutable. Now he must think I’ve been full-on stalking him, which I pretty much did, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Missy mentioned something about Arlington the other day at the general staff meeting.”

The company I work for does his public relations. I’m not on his account, my colleague, Missy, is. And thank goodness for that, or I would’ve lost my marbles a long time ago.

“I wasn’t drunk,” Dorian says on the defensive, referring to my Arlington comment.

“I know,” I tell him. “The press are jerks sometimes.”

He studies me, his too-perceptive eyes seeing more than I care for him to see. So, I panic and blurt, “I should go back to my date.”

Now both his eyebrows disappear under his unruly fringe.

“You’re on a date?”

“First date, actually.” I cross the room toward him, hoping Dorian will scoot and let me disappear into the safety of the crowds.

No such luck. He doesn’t budge an inch, so now we’re also standing too close for comfort.

“And how’s that going?” he asks in a blank tone I can’t interpret.

It’s going nowhere. Not after this little reminder of how a man’s eye on me should make my skin burn without a single touch and cause my heart to stutter violently in my chest.

But this man—icon, legend, idol?—is already taken and I’m no home-wrecker, so I paste a fake smile on my face and deliver an even more false answer. “It’s going great, super, in fact.”

Without a word, Dorian steps aside, his features carved in stone.

I’m beginning to hope I’ve made it out of this interaction alive, with my heart in one solid piece—maybe with only a few small cracks spreading, but still mostly beating fine—when Dorian’s parting salvo catches me as I brush past him.

“Do you always hide alone in a room on great first dates?”

One Month Later

I stride through the revolving door of my office building, gripping my mocha latte—the only thing keeping me upright. Unfortunately, caffeine can’t erase the dark circles under my eyes or unknot the tangle of despair in my chest.

I haven’t slept well these past few weeks.

Running into Dorian at that stupid party a month ago blew six months of therapy to hell.

All the work on shutting unattainable fantasies out, setting clear goals for myself, staying rooted in reality…

poof—undone by a fifteen-minute conversation.

Now everything triggers me. Yesterday, it was his new single playing on the radio.

After that, I couldn’t sleep. Images of him kept flashing through my mind in a relentless onslaught—him on stage, his chiseled features on the big screen, that time I had the sexiest man alive to myself for ten hours.

My brain replayed every second we shared that night on a loop.

By 3 a.m., I was still on the couch, eyes bloodshot, surrounded by KitKat wrappers, streaming his latest album. Each song burned through me like acid.

I shake my head to dislodge the memories.

I need to project less “heartbroken walking zombie” and more “adult woman in charge.” Not easy when the first obstacle of my day is the same steel trap where this ridiculous crush began.

I pause at the elevator bank, eyeing the call button like it might detonate.

Do I want to revisit the scene of the crime?

Stir up everything again by stepping into the same twenty-five square feet where I first met Dorian?

The alternative is twenty flights of stairs.

Good for my mental health and thighs, but terrible for composure.

I can’t sashay into the office a sweaty disaster.

With a sigh of resignation, I opt for the elevator of doom and broken dreams.