Texting Mr. Hollywood

He is an A-list actor. I’m a shy, curvy intern. What do we have in common? Nothing. Except I may have accidentally text him and he may have text me back.

Working for one of the top-rated PR companies in LA is a dream job. Which means I can’t ruin it.

But when I see Weston Wyatt’s phone number by accident on my boss’s phone, I memorize it, telling myself I’ll never text him.

He’s older, and experienced, with millions of women swooning over his Oscar-winning performances and magazine-cover looks.

But one night, on a crazy whim, I type out a text, but I don’t mean to send it. Then the touchscreen of my phone goes on the fritz.

The message sends.

I don’t expect him to reply. But he does.

He even gives me a nickname. Miss Mystery….

So I give him one right back – Mr. Hollywood.

He doesn’t know who I am. But safe behind my phone, I can explore my wildest fantasies.

But women like me aren’t supposed to drive A-list actors to possessive heat, jealous steaminess, or say things like… “You’re mine, Alice. Nobody else’s. Just mine." Does he really mean it, or are they just words?