Page 15 of Over & Out

Dirtface’s voice, muffled through his helmet, filters through my mind.I don’t understand, sweetheart.

“Sort of,” I say, just because it’s easier that way. It’s close enough.

He left flowers at my bedside at the hospital. More than once. With a little card.I’m so sorrywas all they said. As if it was his fault I fucked up.

Tru must see all this dance across my face, because she purses her lips like she’s trying to decide whether to prod further.

“I’m fine now,” I reassure her. “Just a little pain every now and again.”

I picture Hopper Donnach and his entitled demands at the table today to clear my head. It works, but—nope. “I can’t work for an asshole,” I tell her flat out. It’s the truth. I can’t deal with dicks. I know it must be some kind of dead-dad complex. My dad was complicated. I loved him beyond reason, but he hurt me. Dirtface was a dick—or I thought he was—and I developed some weird post-accident crush on him. Or the Duke, during my recovery. Or something. I’m clearly a little messed up.

I clear my throat. “I’m sure you understand.”

Tru smiles. “It doesn’t seem like you have a problem setting boundaries.”

She does not give up easily.

“I don’t,” I say, growing just the tiniest bit frustrated. “And I’m?—”

“He has a second assistant.”

“Excuse me?”

“A gofer, though Cindi would kill you if you called her that. That’s the assistant who picks up the dry cleaning, takeout and such; oversees housekeeping, that sort of thing. She also cooks for him, but that’s only because she likes to mother him.”

I hate to give her any hope—this conversation is over as far as I’m concerned—but once again, my curiosity gets the better of me. Someone actually wants to mother that guy?

“So what exactlydoyou do?” I ask.

“I tell Hopper to get his shit together,” Tru says simply.

I let out a little laugh, despite myself. “What, you yell at him for a living?”

“I don’t often yell, but I do not hold back on my thoughts.”

I sit up straight. I was joking. She’s not. “He likes that?”

“Heneedsthat. I also, of course, manage his schedule, oversee a wide breadth of concerns, provide input to his manager and agent on professional matters, drive him to—and join—various meetings and appointments when appropriate, and work with his PR rep and manager to ensure his obligations are met. But honestly? I met with some other celeb assistants a while ago, and I realized this job is quite unlike many of theirs. It’s certainly not your typical assistant job. Plus…” Here she gives me a little smile. “Besides the very generous pay, there are several very nice perks.”

I sit on my hands. Then I squirm and fold them in my lap. Finally I lean forward and say, “Like what?”

Tru smiles, then leans back, making her earrings shimmer. “Like a wardrobe account. For you. Was the accident your fault?”

The non sequitur shocks me. “Excuse me?”

“Your driving record. Is it clean?”

“Yes.” The dirt bike accident wasn’t on the road. “I’ve been driving since I was fifteen.” I don’t mention that my dad let me drive earlier than that, including once, very illegally, allowing me to drive a firetruck. With the sirens on.

“Wonderful. In that case, you’ll have access to the fleet of vehicles, whether or not you’re driving with Hopper. Five-star hotels when you need to accompany him on trips. That type of thing.”

I swallow hard. I have to hand it to her. She’s read me like a book. I told her I loved her outfit. I’m very intogorgeous clothes of all types, though I’m more of a vintage girl myself. But she also saw that I didn’t flinch at the driving mention, even after I told her I’d been in an accident. I love peeling around in nice cars, which I haven’t done since I did a short stint as a teenager moving cars around on a luxury dealer lot. And five-star hotels? The last time I took a trip down to Vancouver, I stayed in a motel where a literal roach crawled over my forehead in bed.

But what the hell am I thinking? It’s stillhim.The asshole.

The Duke.

I let out a frustrated breath. I don’twantto want this job. But could this be the excitement I’ve been lacking? Hopper’s face flashes in my mind, that smarmy smirk as he threw the Scotch eggs down his stupid gullet. I twist the end of my ponytail around my finger and pull on it, in an actual tug-of-war with myself. Bad. This is a bad idea. Right?

---