Why would he?
He’s David aka DJ Mars.
Global superstar.
Women literally throw themselves at him.
Tall, thin, model-pretty women who probably wake up looking like they walked off a runway and think carbs are a personality flaw.
And me?
I run a bookstore.
I eat cookies for breakfast when no one’s watching.
I alphabetize things for fun.
The most scandalous thing about me is my Kindle history.
So yeah. If he is interested?
It’s not for anything real.
It’s for sex.
A fun little detour in Small Town, USA, before he goes back to his actual life.
And I am not—not—signing up to be someone’s temporary entertainment.
Even if that someone kisses like fornication is his motherhumping job.
Nope. Not going there.
Except in my head, I totally go there.
Because that kiss?
Holy hell.
It replays in my head at the most inconvenient times.
Like when I’m brushing my teeth.
Or trying to sleep.
Or attempting—very unsuccessfully—to be a functioning member of society.
My entire body reacts.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Which is honestly rude.
Like, excuse me, brain?