Page 1 of Touch Me

Chapter One

The giant statue of a man in front of my counter stared right through me like I was invisible. The annoying bastard was probably admiring his reflection in the lobby mirror which was plastered the entire length of the wall behind me.

“What are you doing about it? Are you listening?” He fired questions, one after the other, in slurred, garbled speech without waiting for my response which added to my conviction that I must be invisible.

He raised his hands as if praying to the football Gods, giving me a disgusting view of the sweat stains darkening his armpits. “What’s your name?”

I cringed. I hated my name - Jane. Plain Jane. I wished I could give the beefed-up chump a more exotic name like Krystal or Celeste. Names that were much more suited to the beach location of the Hot Horizon Hotel where I worked.

“Jane,” he barked, and I damned the stupid name badge over my left breast for the hundredth time.

“Yes?”

His puffy cheeks were blotchy red and darkening by the second. “Do you know who I am?”

An asshole. I smiled my most bewildered smile. “No, sir.”

“I’m Jimmy Ringbothom. Bomber Bothom. Heard of me?”

Shaking my head, I shrugged.

The man had it all going on . . . spectacular looks, great body, but he was a lobster—all muscle, no brains.

The Gold Coast was full of men like him.

Don’t get me wrong. I love handsome eye candy as much as any single, twenty-eight-year-old woman. But I prefer to admire them from afar, not invading my personal space like this one was.

And certainly not accompanied by foul body odors.

“I said, I’m hungry.” He slammed his palm onto the counter, snapping me to attention.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bottom?—”

“Ringbothom.” He spat his name so hard, spittle landed on his oversized chin.

Oops. “The kitchen closed two hours ago; I can’t?—”

“I don’t hear, can’t,” he said with exaggerated slowness, glaring up at the light-studded ceiling as if it would give him strength.

I had a protein bar in my desk drawer. I’d be happy to shove that where the sun didn’t shine. I could do it, too. I’d trained at Kamoto’s Karate dojo for two years, preparing myself for creeps like this.

Of course, I’d never do anything. Plain Jane didn’t cause a scene. I didn’t even swear. Not aloud, anyway. In my head, though, I was screaming ‘asshole’ at the top of my lungs.

Lobster placed two hands on the lobby counter, smearing his enormous, greasy paws across the glistening black surface. His immense height allowed him to lean right over, and his glassy red eyes drew to within inches of mine.

As I clutched the counter with one hand and balled my other fist, ready to unleash my self-defense moves on him, the rum cloud that swarmed from his mouth threatened to topple me.

“I need food, or I’ll?—”

“Bomber. Bomber! What’re you doing?” The newcomer’s voice was steeped with authority, and within seconds, Lobster was peeled off the counter and out of my face.

Able to breathe again, I filled my lungs.

I glanced at my hero and froze.

I haven’t laid eyes on him for nineteen years. But I would never forget his full lips which were the color of overripe strawberries. I have a vivid memory of that mouth nearly sucking my lips off my face when we were young kids.

My head spun.

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