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Not while she’s my responsibility.

But Christ, I can’t help it.

I’m walking a step behind Amanda as we move down the long corridor leading toward the stage Carter built for tonight’s performance, and my patience is hanging by a thread.

The dress isn’t helping.

Pale green. Soft and elegant. Strapless.

It hugs her curves like it was painted onto her body.

And those curves?

Fuck.

Amanda Perkins is the definition of a curvy woman. Not the skinny, sharp-edged kind Hollywood loves to parade around.

No, Amanda is soft in all the right places.

Full hips.

Full breasts.

A soft belly and waist that makes my hands itch to grab her and pull her close.

And being a natural redhead doesn’t hurt either.

Her skin is pale and flawless, that peaches-and-cream complexion glowing under the hallway lights.

Against that green dress, she looks like some kind of mythical creature.

A woodland fairy.

Or a goddess.

Either way, every man we pass reacts exactly the same way.

Double takes.

Heads turning.

Eyes widening.

One guy actually walks straight into a table because he’s staring at her ass instead of watching where he’s going.

Can I blame them?

No, because I’m having the exact same fucking problem.

But that doesn’t make me want to hurt them any less.

My eye actually twitches.

This is going to be a long night.

We turn the final corner, and the sound of voices swells ahead of us.

The performance wing is already full.