My Crazy Hot Interstellar Affair

4. Woman Literally Falls for Sculpted-chin, Full-lipped, Adonis-like Stranger

Two days later, at five minutes until nine in the morning, a perplexed Andie waited to cross the street for her interview at 6922½ Sunset Boulevard. She squinted. Blinked. Cocked her head. None of these gestures conjured a building between The Bronze Booty Boutique tanning salon at 6900 and Hooters at 6930.

Her navy blue Brooks Brothers blazer flapped open in the chill wind; brown curls whirled in her face. Capturing the mass, she twisted it into a bun, and fixed it in place with a clip from her pocket. Exhaust fumes from the morning commute filled her lungs. L.A. traffic had its own cadence of hurry up and wait, of engines gunning, brakes squealing and horns blasting.

Even though Andie never misconstrued a number, she double-checked the address on her phone. Of course she hadn't made a mistake. Andie sighed. Now she had five minutes to find a non-existent building. She didn't even know the company's name, which bothered her. She preferred to do extensive research before an interview, but the person she talked to said 'all will be revealed in time,' in a spooky oracle voice. Andie decided not to stress too much about her lack of preparation. She'd never take the job anyway, because of the whole "advertising in a tabloid" thing.

She called, and the same enigmatic lady answered before the phone even rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Andie Bank. Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to confirm the address."

"6922 1/2 Sunset Boulevard."

"Um, uh, well, that's where I am, but there's no building."

"Are you sure, Ms. Bank?"

"Of course I'm..." Andie looked up. Gasped. A twelve-story art deco edifice stood nestled right there between the Bronze Booty and Hooters. More strangeness. The margarita cowboy from the TV was all the strange she needed for a lifetime. "I'll be right there," she said, disconnecting the call.

As she waited for the "walk" sign to turn green, through her peripheral vision she noticed a man appear on the sidewalk next to her. Something about his presence-the smell of cinnamon, the way the air around him seemed to shift and bend like it does over an asphalt road in the summer heat-made Andie turn to wrangle a better look.

She swallowed. He looked like a Greek god. But not one of those overly muscled ones who can't pass a glassy pool in the forest without flexing his biceps. He had messy, straight-as-a-stick light brown hair hanging over his eyes, and a sculpted chin with a dimple slightly off center. And his lips. Many a Hollywood actress paid good money to have lips that full. That kissable. Nice clothes too. His dark blue suit had to be custom made.

He looked into Andie's eyes, and the side of his mouth arched into a smile so dazzling her body heated despite the cool morning air. Her brain started a shutdown protocol, causing her to ignore several important things, like breathing, gravity, dignity or the bright red "Don't Walk' sign. She stepped into the road.

Brakes squealed. The air smelled like burnt rubber. She cried out as a neon yellow Hummer limo headed straight at her.

Andie prepared for death. She reviewed her regrets—not having sex since college, never traveling outside the U.S., and dying in front of Hooters, of all places.

In slow motion, the Hummer's license plate made contact with her knees. She screamed. A hot white pain exploded in her legs as she crumpled to the asphalt. But instead of being run over, a blanket of silence settled over her. Each limb weighed a thousand pounds. Andie looked up and saw the gorgeous guy pushing against the Hummer's bumper with one hand, stopping it dead.

***

"Are you all right?" Came a rich, sexy baritone from above. "Can you stand?"