But then…
“Tucker…” The scent of sweetness and sun-warmed skin wafted by me at the exact moment my mouth was open and ready to send this idiot back to his cave. It was Punk Cowboy from across the pool. He had light brown eyes, and was over six feet tall, well-built with strong hands shoving the green-eyed douchebag in the shoulder. “Shut up, bro. What the fuck’s wrong with you?” He towered over me and my five-foot-two frame, scowling at my aggressor.
Vodka Breath—Tucker, I guessed—was shorter than Punk Cowboy, but still a lot taller than I was. He held his arms out wide. “I’m just talking to her, dickhead. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Bro, have some class. Don’t you see you’re clearly out of your league here?” He gestured to me, side-glancing with a tiny smile that made me think perhaps this was an act and the two were in cahoots in a chick-pickup scheme. Not that they needed me to hit on at a party full of silicone goddesses. “I’m sorry if he’s bothering you.” Punk Cowboy placed a gentle hand on my lower back.
Though he was certainly taking liberties, the small gesture felt nice, and I wasn’t about to object. He was hot, though I normally did not check out a guy’s physique before his personality. Then again, he was being a gentleman, too, compared to his friend.
“I wasn’t bothering her, bro, but look at her. Tell me she doesn’t look like that chick from the happy massage place that was here earlier today.” Tucker pushed his drink tumbler in my direction. “Am I right?”
Great, high school jokes all over again. I clucked my tongue. The last time I clucked my tongue, Samuel’s friend, Nicolas, earned himself my handprint on his face. Enough was enough. I didn’t need any more Asian jokes when I was already feeling like an idiot for being here. “Say it again,” I prompted.
“Say what again?” Tucker pressed a hand to his chest. “You’re not mad, are you? Sweetie, I’m just paying you a compliment. You are, without a doubt, the finest Japanese princess I have ever laid eyes on—”
“Dude…stop.” My defender shoved Tucker’s chest and simultaneously pulled back on his shirt, throwing him off-balance.
Which was actually helpful, given I’d just shot out my wine glass and dumped its contents down his hairless chest at that precise moment. The liquid created a shiny trail down into his pants. “I’m not Japanese. I’m American, of Chinese descent, if you must know. We’re not all alike. Unlike assholes. I heard that once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.”
Punk Cowboy scoffed a laugh, and I turned to walk off, find Rosemary, leave the party—at this point, I didn’t care—but I wasn’t going to stay here and take this. The people next to me broke into cheers over my display of bravado, but I couldn’t focus on them. I’d come here for one thing and one thing only—not to party, not to bond with my fellow tour mates, not to experience a Beverly Hills party for the first and last time in my life.
No, I’d come only to meet my bosses, wherever they were, if they were even here.
“Hey…” Punk Cowboy’s hand reached into mine—warm and strong—and he spun me toward him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry about Tucker. Not to defend him, but he’s just drunk. Normally, he’s a stand-up guy.”
“I hadn’t counted on harassment being part of the job.” Guess I already had something to report to my boss. “Can you tell me something before I go? You seem a decent enough guy.” I took my hand back and gripped my purse strap instead.
“Sure, anything.”
“Can you tell me where Liam Collier and the other guys are? I just came to say hello then get going.”
He studied my face carefully, as though maybe I was kidding, as though I was some clueless fish that just flopped out of the water. “I’m Liam Collier.” His hand, covered in silver rings, extended toward me. “Pleased to meet you. And you are?”
Mortified.
Abby “Mortified” Chan.
Chapter 2
Liam
The angel standing before me was a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Lucy Liu, a vision in classic black, with porcelain skin and minimally painted eyes. Yeah, she stood out like an Aston Martin among Chevys and Toyotas, but I liked that about her. Her delicate hand slipped into mine, and I felt the thick pads of her fingertips.
Okay, maybe not so delicate.
“Oh. I didn’t realize…you were…nice to meet you…” She fumbled with her words, squeezing my hand softly instead of shaking it. “I’m Abby. Your cellist.”
Cellist? “No shit?” My depraved mind flew to an image of this tiny girl, naked and cradling a huge cello between her milky white legs, head tossed back in ecstasy. Whoa. I shook away the vision.
“Yes, shit.” She smiled.
“Sorry, I mean, wow, that’s awesome…that you work for me. And that you play cello. Fantastic.” I was fumbling my words, a pretty fucking amazing thing. Few people left me speechless anymore. I’d seen and done it all these last few years, but I’d never had a prim and proper class act join my tour before.
She stood wringing her hands as though we were at an eighth-grade prom and I was asking her to dance. I didn’t know why, but I felt like I had to be on my best behavior around this chick. “And here I was, thinking you didn’t need me for anything after the way you handled Tucker over there.” I gestured in the general direction he’d fled after Abby scorched his ass.