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. 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?