An unexpected and searing romance unfolds between a young recording artist and her ex-Marine bodyguard trying to outrun his difficult past in this wrenching novel from the author of Come Back to Me and Run Away with Me . Luna is one of the most famous singer-songwriters in the world. But she’s barely keeping it together. Demands from her family, friends, and fans have all become too much. Especially when she starts receiving threatening messages from a dangerous stalker. That’s when Will comes into the picture. A Marine who has just returned from a tour in Afghanistan, Will is unsure what to do with the next chapter of his life. So when a job working security comes up, he figures he’d be a perfect fit. But Will wasn’t expecting a job that thrusts him so into the limelight—and he definitely wasn’t expecting Luna; a human hurricane who’s used to getting whatever she wants. Once Luna begins to let her guard down and show her real self to Will, their relationship moves from professional friendship to something more. As Will battles his inner demons, and Luna attempts to escape the realities of fame, they discover a deep connection that can’t be denied. But Will knows he shouldn’t compromise himself with a client. It’s too risky. Too complicated. And yet none of that matters when the threats against Luna only get worse, leading to an altercation that could mean both Will and Luna losing the one thing that means everything to them—each other. Mila Gray is the pseudonym for Sarah Alderson. Having spent most of her life in London, Sarah quit her job in the nonprofit sector in 2009 and took off on an around the world trip with her husband and princess-obsessed daughter on a mission to find a new place to call home. They are currently located somewhere between India, London, Canada, and the US. Sarah is the author of several YA novels, including Out of Control , The Sound , Hunting Lila , and its sequel Losing Lila , plus the paranormal Fated trilogy. Will WILL The gates are wrought iron and ten feet high. Shards of broken glass stud the top of the walls on either side. “It’s like being back in Afghanistan,” I mutter to myself as the sullen old guy in the security booth waves me through and up the long, winding driveway. Up ahead I catch a glimpse of a house framed by palm trees and fringed with a bright bloom of pink bougainvillea. It’s Spanish style, two floors, with lots of windows and balconies. Though the security might be on a par with an Afghan military base, the house is one hundred percent Beverly Hills. I pull up beside a fountain that is almost as big as a swimming pool and sits in the middle of a circular driveway in front of the house. My beat-up old Bronco is wildly out of place in such manicured, high-end surroundings. I don’t want to dirty up the view. I follow the driveway around the side of the house, hoping to find somewhere to park around back, but as I do, a bright yellow Porsche screeches up, spraying gravel in its wake. I slam on my brakes, but this person doesn’t seem to notice that they almost drove into me. The Porsche pulls up in front of the house. The windows are tinted black, so I can’t see who’s driving and music pounds from inside; a stream of rap that drowns out the jazz track playing on my radio and makes my Bronco vibrate as though King Kong is rocking it. I shake my head and follow the drive around the house, tempted for half a second to reverse and get the hell out of here. I wonder if whoever is driving the car is the person I’m supposed to be interviewing with, and I worry that I’m doing the wrong thing. I don’t want to work for a selfish asshole. But instead, I pull into a shady parking spot beside a truck filled with gardening equipment and get out, pausing to scan the grounds, noting the team of gardeners grooming the bushes and clipping grass in the distance and a man dredging leaves from a glistening blue pool. My eyes skip over the menagerie of colorful floaties on the surface of the water and land on the perimeter wall, hidden in places by thick stands of eucalyptus and palms. I clock the half dozen cameras camouflaged in the trees and the one above the back door, as well as the touch-pad entry system and the reinforced glass windows. This house has more security than the military base I just spent the last year on, and over there we were facing bomb threats. But maybe that’s normal in this world? The back door opens as I start walking toward it. A woman in what I’m guessing to be her late twenties, wearing skinny jeans and high heels, stands on the threshold. She frowns at the sight of me, looking me up and down, and I pull off my sunglasses and arrange my face into what I hope resembles a smile. She doesn’t smile back. Instead, her mouth tightens with disapproval. I guess maybe I should have shaved. She’s wearing stiletto heels and has more jewelry on display than the front window of Tiffany and Co. Diamonds drip from her fingers and ears