His jaw twitches, but then he relents. “He has lots of fans. Some of them get a little more attached, lose touch with reality. We managed to keep this part out of the news, but two women tried to follow Saint home one night and kept too close for comfort. Whether accidentally or on purpose, they hit his bumper. It was raining; roads were slick. Saint lost control of the car. The women stopped too. But only to take some pictures of him in the wreckage.”

My back teeth meet with a click. “Jesus.”

Shock tingles through my veins. If you’d have asked me last month if I’d react like a protective mama bear over Macon Saint, I would have laughed. I’m not laughing now. I’m sick.

I think of Macon hurt in the dark while some shitheads took pictures of him, and I have to fight the urge to turn the car around and comfort him. The sensation is almost dizzying and completely unfamiliar when it comes to Macon.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” I swallow hard. “He should have told me.”

“Yes, he should have. But try not to be too hard on him. It’s like pulling nails to get him to talk about it.” North rubs a finger along his temple as he frowns. “He thinks that if he’d kept his cool, he wouldn’t have lost control of the car.”

“That’s ridiculous. He was being stalked. I would have been terrified.”

“Macon loves to be in control. And he doesn’t ever admit to fear.”

“This is true,” I mutter, then expel a breath. “Jesus. I can’t believe someone did that to him.”

“Stalking . . . it’s a shitty aspect of fame.”

“And there’s more of these people?” My voice is wispy, fear for Macon pulling at my throat. “Crazies who stalk him?”

He considers his answer. “It’s hard to tell who is going to act out. But Saint and the studio agreed to have him guarded while he’s recovering. Once shooting starts up again, I’ll go back to stunt work and training, and Saint will have another bodyguard detail assigned to him if he wants it.”

If he wants it? He had better.

My thoughts halt. When had I become so invested? No, this is normal. Of course I care; Macon is a human being. Anyone with a lick of compassion would care. But that doesn’t explain how personal it feels or the way ice has settled in the pit of my stomach. I’m afraid for him. Specifically.

Rattled, I then reach down to turn on the radio. North and I maintain a thick but not uncomfortable silence as we drive along, listening to the Strokes.

Two hours later, my somber mood has turned to annoyance. Karen has left me in the waiting area of her office suite. It’s a very nice area, with shining concrete floors, exposed ductwork, and colorful modern art on the blinding-white walls.

There is one wall dedicated to her clients, featuring pictures of Karen laughing it up with Hollywood A listers and up-and-comers. Macon’s picture features Karen leaning on his arm, her fingers trying—and failing—to wrap around his big biceps. Macon stares back at the camera, a faint, polite smile on his face.

There is something almost chameleonlike in his looks. Sometimes, he is the dark and brooding Byronic hero; in other lights, he’s the all-American athlete; and then you look again, and he’s a marauder—intimidating and brutish. And yet no matter what, he is still Macon; the symmetry of his features, the undeniable beauty of him, is always there.

I glare at that face now, my butt sore from sitting in a leather chair so narrow I swear it’s designed to weed out undesirables based on ass width alone. There are two other people stuck here with me, a pretty young woman who’s probably no older than nineteen and reminds me of Lorde and a guy around my age who is Matt Bomer handsome. Both are tense but trying not to appear that way. Both have been waiting less time than I have.

Karen’s assistant catches my eye and quickly looks away. She’s beautiful too—must be a requirement—and wearing stilettos that are too small. I should know; I spent a good fifteen minutes trying not to stare at the toe crotch bulging from the tops of her shoes.

The fact that I’m even thinking about toe crotch settles it. Enough is enough. I can either try to get past Ms. Heels—and I’m guessing that’s easier said than done despite the fact that I’m wearing Keds—or I can annoy the hell out of Karen. Annoying Karen sounds much more fun.

I am a woman of few talents. I cook, I bake, and I know songs. I can carry a tune, but I’m not going to win any awards. But I have the ability to remember song lyrics. Dozens of them.

Setting my purse down, I smile around the room, making sure to catch everyone’s eye. Not surprisingly, they all return my look with varying levels of caution. Weird might work on Sunset but not at a high-level talent agency. Well, at least not for them.