A dream come true—meeting a favorite celebrity. How many times had I wished for something like this to happen? For the opportunity to land in my lap, for an unexpected meet-cute to take place with someone I'd admired for so long?

Tonight, it was happening. In a back room in a large concert hall I'd been to a few times as a child, but never as an adult, like now. In my hometown of New York City, while other screaming fans waited out in the auditorium.

Experience a meeting with the man behind the voice—Leo Lee, from SMASH, is waiting for you!

I remembered the advertisement so clearly, because I'd clicked so fast on it that I'd likely sprained my finger.

And now, hundreds of dollars later, I was there.

I'd never seen so many wild and colorful posters of the same band in the same place. So many plastered on walls—to the point of not being able to see the wall—juxtaposed in a way that showed the band's progress over the years. That time when Jimmy, the drummer, made headlines for the fastest beats ever recorded. Or when Sammy, the lead guitarist, had jumped off stage and almost fallen flat on his face, but some chick had saved him—that chick was now his wife.

Or, my favorite moment of all—when Leo Lee, the hot, delicious, deliriously talented lead singer had formed the band after a brief solo stint. He was a playful crooner, but he missed being a rockstar. That picture was right in front of my face; all six band members gathered around Leo, who was signing paperwork. They looked at him with pride, excitement, possibly some nerves.

I had those nerves now. Because of all the twists of fate, another favorite moment was about to happen. My moment. I was about to meet Leo Lee. The Leo Lee. A poet, a dazzling man whose image haunted my dreams, whose music flowed in my veins. I knew every song, every lyric, and I'd watched every documentary and interview he'd ever done. I'd been following his journey since day one, since the moment he set foot on a stage and was recorded and his romantic, lovely voice became part of history. I was fifteen, he was twenty.

I was now twenty-five, and he was thirty. All grown up. I couldn't even begin to imagine the possibilities—

No, that was a lie. All I'd been doing, since I'd been escorted into this backstage room was imagining possibilities. Leo Lee walking in, wearing that signature leather jacket with nothing underneath, his hot, hot torso gleaming with the beginnings of sweat, the waistband of his tight, tight jeans leaving so much to desire, those muscles molded like a white chocolate bar I'd feel melting in my mouth. He'd see me, smile, beam, even, and take my hand, and say, "screw this, let's go back to my dressing room."

Or he'd come in, fanning his beautiful face, blushing from having had to run through a horde of fans. Those eyes flecked with blue and green and amber—they were hazel, according to the close-ups in magazines—would find me, stop, stare, and he'd relax. "Oh, it's you," he'd say, realizing I wasn't one of those screaming, squealing girls who wanted to touch his chest (I did) and press a finger to his soft lips or kneel at his feet and listen to him sing for me.

I wasn't a groupie. Not like I'd bought all his concert tickets (too expensive) and followed him around the world or knew where he lived (I didn't). Nor had I bought his used clothing on online auctions or stalked him or even thought of doing that. It was a regular, good old celebrity crush; and I so happened to own all his records, some t-shirts with his face on them, and a few posters very much like the ones surrounding me now.

To even be here, in this room, waiting for him, was a privilege, and I knew it. I never thought I'd get that privilege, having been scraping for scraps these past few years, stuck in a job that wouldn't recognize my talent. A job that wouldn't even let me demonstrate it to them. A job that wouldn't pay me well enough for the shit work I did. Not that I was poor; but I had to live across town from where I worked, sit in subways for an hour in the morning, another hour at night, and deal with rowdy neighbors banging on walls and playing obnoxious music all the time. If they'd been playing SMASH, then I'd have been fine; but it was country music, for crying out loud.

The "VIP-Backstage experience" tickets went on sale a few days ago, and—not that I'd been scouring the internet hoping to win them in a contest—I hesitated for a few minutes, but ended up splurging. They were half-off. A meet-and-greet with Leo Lee, and then a front-row seat at his show, to watch him and Jimmy and Sammy and all the others rock on into the late night? Yes. I had a measly amount of money hanging out in my savings account. So I did it. I spent it all.

On VIP tickets to meet Leo, before the concert of a lifetime. No regrets whatsoever.

I was jittery, so I sat down on one of the plush couches that decorated the room. There were three; one red, one pink, one blue. I chose the red one, which was closest to me, and almost melted into the cushions.

I pictured the band here, getting together before the show began, doing some kind of ritual they did before every concert—pray, recite a poem, say encouraging words, who knew?

I started daydreaming about what Leo would wear tonight. He and the band didn't necessarily coordinate, but they all had a punk-ish background, and tended to wear the ripped jeans, the grungy t-shirts, the halfway destroyed Converse shoes with mismatched laces. Leo, however, put more effort into his looks, being the front-man and leader of the group, and a fan of fashion. In pictures I'd seen of his concerts, he wore tank tops that molded to his perfect physique, or t-shirts with obscure logos on them, and tight jeans, sometimes colored pants that gave a pop against his preference of black or white blouses. He shrugged back his short, dark blond hair, sang vivid melodies into the microphone; sometimes looking like he was making love to it. That was what Leo was known for—haunting tunes with lyrics so profound it would take days, weeks, months to fully interpret their meaning.

I loved it. I loved him. Obviously, I knew all my meet-cute scenarios were to settle my nerves; it wouldn't happen that way. He'd come in, be friendly, shake my hand, give me a hug if I was polite about it. He'd sit with me for a handful of minutes, answer my burning questions—when is the next album coming out?—and ask about me, my life. I'd skip over that—he didn't need to know I'd spent every last cent in my savings to be here, against my best friend's advice, against my own conscience. I'd proceed with deeper questions. He'd get embarrassed by me asking who his current love conquest was, since he tried to keep that private (he failed). Then he'd sign an autograph, give me another hug, and tell me to enjoy the show. And that'd be that.

Yet my intricate imagination wouldn't rein itself in. I kept envisioning other things happening, things that groupies would die for. Him kissing my cheek when we hugged. Touching my leg when we sat down next to each other. Gazing longingly into my eyes and licking his lips as he saw my lips moving while I talked to him. Admiring my curves, the round, firmness of my breasts squished under this ridiculously uncomfortable push-up bra. Tracing a finger down my bare arm, prompting goosebumps to populate over my light skin. Leaning in to whisper in my ear, to brush the long, dark blonde hairs from my neck, and press a smooth, wet peck right there—

The door flew open, and my heart stopped. I shot to my feet, shaking.

This was it. He was there. He'd come to meet me, an adoring fan who'd spent way too much money for this but didn't give a shit. It was worth it. He was worth it. He was—

Not there.

In the doorway stood a different guy, oddly familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place him. He scanned the room, saw me, and frowned.

"Emmaline Simmons?" His dark eyes narrowed, still scanning me, his mouth opening slightly as his gaze met with my cleavage. I envisioned him tilting sideways to glimpse my ass; he would do it under other circumstances, I was sure. And the notion both disgusted and flattered me, coming from this guy.

He was...kind of hot. Not Leo, but not bad to look at, at all.

"Emma, yes," I said, tossing my lengthy mane of hair to the side and batting my heavily coated lashes at him. "And you are?" I flinched; whoa, that was rude. "I mean, who's asking?"

He seemed taken aback for about two seconds before holding up a clipboard and wincing at it. "I'm sorry, but Leo is running late." He peered at me with a touch of sympathy, almost apologetic, as if this were something that happened often.

"How late?" I folded my arms and fell back onto the sofa, containing a huff of annoyance. Celebrity or not, it was rude to show up late to something someone paid for, right? I was punctual; I'd actually showed up half an hour early to this thing, and not only because public transportation in New York City could be a mess to navigate.

The guy checked his watch, then the clipboard, then me. "Look, Emmaline—"

"—Emma, please," I insisted, raising my eyebrows at him.

"Emma." He entered the room and closed the door behind him. Something about the way he said my name—it gave me chills. Breathy, borderline sexy. Interesting.

Now that he was in full view, and not hiding behind the door, I got a good look at him. He was wearing a suit; one of those bodyguard, businessman outfits with a black tie, an impeccable white shirt underneath, an earpiece in his ear. All he was missing was sunglasses, and I'd have thought him straight out of Men in Black.

Wait, was he FBI? Did Leo employ that kind of high-profile security? I started overheating; something about men in uniform and suits always got me hot and bothered. Why hadn't I pictured Leo showing up in a suit?

"Listen..." He took a few steps in, allowing me to watch his cadence, his confidence despite the hesitation in his tone. He was tall, well-built; my intrigue grew. "Emma, I'm so sorry." He set the clipboard behind his back, giving me a nice display of his broad chest, his long legs. He was around six foot two. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, providing a sighting of the flat but most likely muscular stomach underneath his shirt.

I didn't have particular tastes regarding men, or women, or any of the individuals I dated or slept with; but this guy? Not kind of hot. He was completely hot. A pleasant face with a bit of scruff over his chin and above his full lips. Somber eyes with a touch of kindness in them; like gooey chocolate. Short, dark hair that had a glossy sheen to it, but I could almost smell its freshness. In fact, I could smell him—a spicy aftershave, a sweet cologne that filtered into my nostrils and made me sway.

Good thing I was sitting down.

"What's going on?" I crossed my legs, which was hard to do when wearing such tight jeans.

He winced again, then came over to sit beside me. Exactly like I'd pictured Leo doing; but he wasn't Leo.

"Leo's not going to make it," he said softly, keeping his gaze on his clipboard as he set it in his lap. Scribbled on it were various names, times they'd checked in, a schedule of events, and an itinerary of sorts; I tried not to focus on it. That wasn't my business.

What was my business was this sentence he'd uttered; something about Leo not making it?

I squinted at him, trying to ignore his delightful aroma from up close. "What do you mean he's not going to make it?" My legs were jittery, and I wrapped my hands around them to stop them from jiggling too much.

"I mean that Leo is stuck in traffic. He's barely going to be here in time for his first set," said the man, who by now I assumed to be some security officer or bodyguard. A really good-looking security officer or bodyguard. "And he won't be here for this VIP backstage experience. I'm super sorry about it, but I'll have to guide you out of this room and on to your VIP seat for the show."

My heart dropped. "Oh." I patted my thighs, then got up with a groan. "Well in that case, yeah, I guess I should—"

I fell right back where I'd been sitting, suddenly dizzy from getting up too fast. The bodyguard guy let go of his clipboard and sank to his knees in front of me, inspecting my face.

"Are you okay? Fuck, I'm sorry," he cringed, "and sorry for saying fuck, too. Um...can I get you a glass of water? A snack? Do you need to lie down? I'm so, so sorry."

I waved him off. "No, I'm fine. I'm not...I'm okay." He grimaced at me; the cutest grimace I'd ever seen. Concerned and freaked out and likely a bit judgmental, but it was adorable.

To him I must have looked like some overwhelmed fanatic who'd been denied her one and only opportunity to declare her flame to the celebrity she'd been crushing on since her teenage years. And I was disappointed, but mostly because I'd spent so much damn money on these tickets, and now I was only getting half the experience.

Leo and I meeting today wasn't meant to be.

"Can I..." I rubbed my forehead as I planted my feet and slowly stood back up. "Can I get a refund for the tickets, at least? This cost a lot, and I..."

The guy placed a hand on my arm, as if to test my stability. He felt warm, comforting, and his gaze was so soft, so sweet as he looked at me and nodded. "Of course. That was the plan. Uh," he fished for something inside his suit jacket, pulling out a phone, "can I get your number so we can communicate about that refund?"

I was about to blurt out the area code for my number, but I snapped my mouth shut and glared at him. I'd purchased those tickets directly from SMASH's main website; meaning this guy and his team had my number already.

"Hey," I said, hoping to sound playful, but probably sounding rude again. "Are you trying to get my digits to chat me up after coming in here to tell me Leo Lee canceled on me?"

Evidently shocked, the man sucked his lips in and peeked down at his shiny shoes. "Well," he tipped his chin up and smirked, "that wasn't the plan, but...maybe? Forgive me, but you are really cute."

I folded my arms and quirked an eyebrow, trying not to smirk at the compliment. "And do you ask for all the dejected damsels' numbers as they stand back here waiting for Leo until he doesn't show up?"

His tanned skin turned a dark shade of red. "Look, you don't have to, it's—" He bent over to pick up his clipboard, and I couldn't help but admire his rounded, well-shaped ass. Nice. "I don't ask for numbers, ever. But you came all this way—your information said you're from Hamilton Heights, right? That's like, across town, and I feel bad. Leo is..." He rolled his eyes, flustered; it was too cute. "He's a jerk, okay? All the girls come in here hoping he'll woo them but he won't. He never does. And I'm not him, not a rockstar, but I'm not bad looking, eh? Not a replacement, but would it be so bad to exchange numbers and chit-chat while I work on getting you a refund for tonight?"

I normally discarded guys like this. The ones who swept in and took advantage of a situation gone awry to put their foot in the game. But this guy... I wasn't certain why, but he appealed to me. Something about his smile, his squared shoulders, that teddy-bear-underneath-the-surface vibe that got to me. He wasn't a bulky dude, but definitely in great shape, his biceps bulging to the point of stretching out his suit jacket. In one fell swoop he'd be able to pick me up and carry me in his arms if I were to faint, and I'd enjoy it. He had a kind face, and a deep yet gentle timbre that made me want to listen to him talk more.

"Okay," I said, taking his phone from him to input my number. "Here you go. And," I dug through my purse for my own phone, "what should I put you as in my contacts? The bodyguard dude who made excuses for Leo and asked for my digits?"

Fuck, why was I being so snarky?

I had a shot with this guy. This cute, open, funny guy who'd manifested a desire to get to know me. For all I knew it'd be yet another one-night-stand, but what if we went on a few dates and liked each other? Or what if it was the one-night stand of a lifetime?

He snorted as he took my phone to put in his number. "That's too long. How about Cameron, Leo's personal assistant?" He handed the phone back, and our hands touched; a jolt ran up my arm, then my spine, and tickled my neck.

I liked how he didn't balk at my sarcasm. I liked how he was tactful, yet playful. Maybe I'd like him.

I hadn't had a true whirl in the sheets in a while, being so busy with work. And if we started dating...well, that'd be a feat. Me, with a significant other? It was normally out of the question with my schedule. But to have a few conversations with this guy, go out for a drink or two... I saw no harm in it. And it'd make up somewhat for my disappointment at not meeting Leo.

"Okay, Cameron." I flashed my best smile at him. "So now that that's done, will you be my escort to the concert?" I extended my arm, and after a short hesitation, he took it, and led me out of the room.

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