The man was absolutely, one hundred percent edible.

After years and years of dealing with Richard, aka Whore Hound from Hell, I liked to think of myself as immune to testosterone. But this man radiated sex like a blinking neon sign that said, "Come get a piece of this." I felt like a big, fat sexual appetizer screaming for a little down-and-dirty attention. I had the urge to slowly strip and swing from a pole. Maybe offer to give him a lap dance.

How pathetic was I?

Royce Powell was in his mid-thirties, possibly early forties. He had bronze skin. Electric, pale blue eyes-that were watching me intently. My stomach clenched. Did I still have dirt on my face? His nose was straight, his lips full, soft and completely kissable. A shadow of dark stubble lined his jaw, giving him a rugged quality that only added to his appeal. His broad shoulders were encased in an expensive Italian suit.

He was a combination of George Clooney shaken together with Josh Wald and a splash of Brad Pitt on the side. Did I mention how much I love to look at Brad Pitt? Maybe I'm not so immune to testosterone, after all.

Royce offered me a sexy smile of greeting.

My senses reeled and my mouth went dry; a lump formed in my throat. That smile… it was lethal. Pure lady-killer. Run, my mind shouted. Get out of here.

Where were my wits? My cunning? My blood instinct?

I would soon be chatting with this perfect man, maybe even shaking his perfect hand. At the thought, my nervous system kicked into high gear. How could I shake his hand when my own felt like a swamp? I had to do something to calm my nerves. But what? My stepdad's advice to "picture those who make you nervous completely naked" didn't apply here.

Royce Powell…naked…

I slapped a polite smile on my face and decided then and there to think of him as a turkey-and-cheese-on-rye sandwich. I did not like turkey and cheese. I hated rye.