Part 5 (1/2)
Jules shook his head. ”Never mind.” He ordered a turkey and Swiss, tons of veggies, and no mayo. ”How's your first day of work?”
Chelsea ordered a ham and cheddar, hold the veggies, yes to mayo. ”Are we changing the subject?”
”Yep.”
How was her first day? She'd survived and had even managed to find a Betsey Johnson skirt on sale at Neiman Marcus. But...”Mr. Bressler is difficult.”
”I've heard. In just over a month, he's gone through five health care work-ers. You're the sixth.”
She hadn't known the exact number, but she wasn't surprised. ”I'm not a health care worker. My plan is to dazzle him with my a.s.sistant skills.” So far he didn't seem all that dazzled, but Jules didn't need to know that. ”By the time I get him back home today, he will wonder how he ever got along without me.”
FIVE.
Chelsea scarfed her ham sandwich and made it back to the Spitfire at ten after two. She'd used the extra ten minutes to pull the Mercedes in front of the bar so Mr. Bressler wouldn't have to walk the extra block. Surely he'd be grateful.
The crowd had thinned out, and she waved to Colin as she walked to the VIP lounge. Deep male laughter filled the back of the room, and it wasn't until Chelsea saw Mark that she realized the laughter came from him. Donda sat on the edge of the red sofa, one of her hands resting on his knee as she spoke, gesturing wildly with her other hand. Several empty appetizer plates and gla.s.ses sat on the table in front of them. Chelsea pulled out her BlackBerry and looked at it as if she were consulting a schedule. ”We have just enough time to get you to your next appointment,” she said. Celebrities loved looking important. Like they were always off to something bigger and better. Most of the time it was a little white lie.
”I just have a few more questions,” Donda said.
Chelsea glanced up and looked at Mark. His brows were drawn as if she was speaking a language he didn't recognize. He was probably confused about the little white lie. He'd never had his very own personal a.s.sistant and wasn't familiar with how she worked and what she could do for him. Soon he'd be singing her praises. ”I'm double-parked in front, but if you need more time, I can come back.”
”I think we're done.” He reached for his cane.
”Thanks for meeting me, Mark.” Donda rubbed her hand a few inches up his leg, and Chelsea wondered if that was professional behavior for a Sports Ill.u.s.trated reporter. She'd bet not. ”If I have any follow-ups, I'll be in touch.”
He planted his good hand on the arm of the sofa and stood. He sucked in a breath, then clinched his jaw, and Chelsea wondered when he'd last taken his medication. If it had been that morning, she needed to get him home. Though surely he would have brought something with him. But as they moved through the lounge, his steps were a bit slower and more measured than they'd been an hour ago.
”Take care, sweetheart,” Colin called out to her. ”Come back when you can stay.”
She flashed him a smile. ”Bye, Colin. Don't work too hard.”
As they stepped outside, Mark asked, ”Boyfriend?”
”I've only been in Seattle a little more than a week. Not nearly long enough to find a boyfriend.” She shoved her sungla.s.ses on her face and moved to the double-parked Mercedes. ”Give me a few more days,” she said as she opened his door. Then she glanced at the street traffic and ran around to the driver's side before he could complain about her opening his door. ”Make it a week,” she added as she slid inside the car.
He looked across the car at her and shut his door. ”That long?”
She was sure he was being facetious, but she didn't care. ”Finding guys to date isn't a problem. A boyfriend takes more time,” she said as she turned off the hazard lights. ”There are lots of hot guys like Colin around. Guys who look good in a pair of jeans and a wife-beater. Those guys are fun, but they aren't real boyfriend material.” She belted herself in.
”So poor Colin is off your list?”
”Nah. I'd go out with him.” She shrugged. ”He thinks I'm s.p.u.n.ky.”
”That's one word for you.” He grabbed his sungla.s.ses from the collar of his T-s.h.i.+rt. ”Another word would be 'pit bull.'”
”Yes.” She slid the car into drive and pulled away from the Spitfire. ”But I'm your pit bull.”
”Lucky me.” He put on the gla.s.ses and buckled his seat belt.
He said it like he didn't mean it, but he would. She glanced at the GPS and continued northeast. ”Have you seen the front page of the Seattle Times sports section?”
He turned and looked out the pa.s.senger window. ”'Fraid not.”
Which she found a little surprising since he'd been the captain of the Chinooks until six months ago. ”Half the page is filled with a photo of a group of guys standing on a yacht somewhere, and someone is pouring beer from the Stanley Cup on women in bikinis.”
He didn't respond. Maybe he was in too much pain. She'd broken her tailbone falling off a table once. At the time, she'd had one too many cherry bombs and had been convinced she was some sort of exotic belly dancer. Which was ridiculous since she'd never had a lesson and danced about as well as she sang. The next morning her tailbone had hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h and she could hardly move without swearing. So she could kind of relate to Mark's mood. ”At first I was a little appalled, but Jules told me that it's okay and even allowed. Everyone on the team gets a day with the cup to do whatever he wants to do with it. Within reason, of course. There are rules. Although I think they're pretty lax.” She glanced at the GPS and took a slight right. ”But I guess you already know all that.”
”Yeah. I already know that.”
”So, what day do you want the Stanley Cup? Just let me know and I'll make it happen.”
”I don't want the f.u.c.king cup,” he said without emotion.
She looked over at the back of his dark head. ”You're kidding. Why? Jules says you're a huge part of the reason the team made it into the finals.”
”Who the h.e.l.l is Jules?”
”Julian Garcia. He's Mrs. Duffy's a.s.sistant. Kind of like I'm your a.s.sistant. Only Jules knows a lot about hockey and I know squat about the game.” She shrugged. ”Jules said you deserve more credit for building the team than anyone else.” Okay, maybe she'd embellished a wee bit. But blowing smoke up celebrity b.u.t.t was part of her job. In the spirit of smoke blowing, she added, ”More credit than Ty Savage.”
”I don't want to hear that a.s.shole's name.”
Okay. Someone sounded bitter. ”Well, you've earned a day with the cup just like the other guys. Probably more because you were the captain and you-”
”I need to stop at a pharmacy on the way home,” he interrupted and pointed toward the left. ”There's a Bartell Drugs.”
She slowed, cut across three lanes, and pulled into the parking lot.
”Jesus Christ! You're going to get us killed.”
”You wanted Bartell.”
”Yeah, but I thought you'd take a U at the light like a normal person.”
”I am a normal person.” She parked by the front doors and looked across the car into the mirrored image in his sungla.s.ses. His jaw was clenched like she'd done something wrong. There hadn't been any other cars that close, and everyone knew that a miss was as good as a mile. She was pretty sure she'd learned that rule in drivers' ed cla.s.s. ”I thought maybe you need to fill a prescription? Like right now!”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. ”I have my prescriptions delivered.” He grabbed two twenties and handed them to her.
She guessed that meant she was going in by herself. Which was okay. It would take them longer if he got out. ”What do you need? Toothpaste? Deodorant? Preparation H?”
”Box of condoms.”
She closed her eyes and mentally pounded her head on the steering wheel. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars. ”Are you sure you don't want to get those yourself?”
He shook his head and smiled. His straight teeth were unusually white within the shadows of the Mercedes. ”As you keep reminding me, you're my a.s.sistant. Lucky you.”
Buying condoms was so embarra.s.sing. Worse than maxi pads and only slightly better than the monthly Valtrex prescription she'd had to pick up for a certain young actress with a sitcom on the WB. ”What size?”