European Tour (Rocking the Pop Star Book 1) Read Free Page B

tongue as my eyes take in her form. The woman before me drips sex appeal like she alone manufactured it. With no sign at all of the freckles from yesterday, her Japanese features are played up with the deft handling of a makeup brush. Slanted green eyes peek out of long lashes darkened with black mascara, and generous lips are no longer red as a candy apple. They are the lips of a woman begging to be kissed.
    “Good morning, Amber.” She pauses, either letting me know that she can finally speak without her vocal cords rasping like sandpaper, or to acknowledge the fact that she’s rendered me speechless. “ Brody .”
    “Good morning,” I say blandly. What I’m really thinking is “Whoa! Wow! Or some equally superlative “W” word, and my dick is as piqued as my brain.
    I roll my eyes inwardly. Smooth move Mr. former rock star. You have seen a good-looking woman before, right?
    Plenty of them, but the cliché that some people look much better in person than in pictures is very true if the vision standing before me is any indication.
    Sky’s wearing a soft cotton halter in bright summer colors and low-riding jeans which have to be tailored to fit only her body, because I can’t imagine any other woman wearing them the way she’s wearing them right now.
    The revelation that she’ll be twenty-one in a few days seems to have given my body permission to lust after her, because it’s officially gone into overdrive. I hope I’m not asked to stand anytime soon.
    “So, Amber,” Sky says, “I think I’ll have Brody ride along with me to my interview at KTLA.” She riffles through the files on the desk. She uncovers the one containing the interview questions and her canned answers.
    “You’re the boss,” Amber says with a shrug.
    Sky looks expectantly at me, and I mentally shake myself free of the lascivious stupor her entrance put me in.
    “Um, yeah. Sure.” Verbal much, Brody?
    She turns on her heel and walks away, and I can’t decide which view I like better.
    The driver is waiting at the curb as expected, because Amber is such a fucking multitasker, she doesn’t miss a beat. I have some huge ballet flats to fill, which is Amber’s shoe of choice at this point in her pregnancy. She’s assured me that I’ll know everything I need to know before we fly out to London on Monday, so I try not to fear that I’m going to fail at this job big time.
    Malik Thompson, the beefy bodyguard Mrs. Samuelson referred to yesterday, speaks to Sky, but I’m given only a tight nod as he holds the limo door open.
    The man of few words rides shotgun with the driver.
    As we exit the gates from Sky’s property, I open Amber’s email. It contains contact information and instructions for when we enter the television station. I review the information while Sky reads over her interview questions.
    On the 101, Sky puts the file aside. She must want to talk. I put my phone down.
    “I have to say, I’m not sure if it was the steroid prescription from my doctor or your miracle tea that did the trick, but I’m so thankful I won’t be croaking like a frog at this interview today,” she says.
    “I’d put my money on the tea.” Obviously, I’ve regained my verbal swagger since her stunning earlier entrance. Now I’m wonder if I’ll ever tire of hearing her smoky, natural speaking voice. It has a sexy noir film star timbre that together with her scent keeps me on the verge of near-erection. The warm and sensual fragrance she wears with jasmine undertones is enough to drive any self-respecting man insane.
    She grins. “You would say that, because it’s your recipe.”
    “Well, that, and because it’s never failed me.”
    “David said you have a music background. Do you also sing?”
    “I do…um did.” I clear my throat. “Ancient history.”
    “How ancient, old man? You can’t be more than a few years older than me.”
    “Try eight years. I’ll be twenty-nine in October.”
    “So, you were a musician when you were