“Uh, look. I don’t want to be a dick or anything,” he said, basically telling me he was about to be a dick. “But apparently, I hired you to be my publicist last night?”
“Why are you asking me, like that’s a question?”
“Because I don’t exactly remember doing it.”
I stared at him. What the fuck?
“Shane told me this morning,” he explained. “I remember talking to you about Danielle Duke and stuff, but…”
“Are you fuckingkiddingme?”
“Not kidding. Drinking. A lot. But since, as Shane explained it, I really talked you into it…” He looked dubious about that—likeI’dconvincedhimto hire me, and his own friend was lying to him about it? “I’m willing to give you a chance.”
“Oh. Well, lucky me,” I said, with exaggerated glee.
“Yeah, well. I need to shower, then I have plans. So…”So… don’t waste my time.I could hear the unspoken end of that sentence.
“Plans,” I echoed evenly.
“Yup.”
I really hoped his “plans” didn’t involve another high-profile mean girl. But maybe I’d slip that in later. We were not starting off on the best foot. He’d just told me, basically, that this meeting was unimportant to him. However, I knew that saving his career was important to him. Therefore, translation:I don’t believe you can actually do anything of value for me.
“I won’t waste your time,” I promised him.
“Good.”
He headed into the kitchen, around the big island, and I pulled a stool up to it. While he wasn’t looking, I quickly peeled off Shayla’s sweater. It really was too warm for it. When he glanced over at me, his eyes went straight to my chest.
Damn, maybe this bra did make the girls look nice.
“You want a drink?”
“Uh…” Shit.Think.
Ordinarily, I’d go with the vibe the client set for a meeting, assuming it was appropriate. A drink in the afternoon while meeting with a rock star seemed appropriate. Doing it while alone with him in his house, when his band had just imploded over a sex-related scandal, not so much.
Also, my meeting with Danielle Duke was still scorched painfully into my squishy red matter. It hurt me when she said all those things about me. I did not need to blur the line between professional and personal here. I did not need to do anything that could be viewed as inappropriate by my client. A man who had, apparently, monopolized my attention at a public event during said sex scandal, presumably to make his date jealous, or because he was just fucking bored?
Who even knew what the man considered appropriate.
I swallowed.
Johnny was looking at me expectantly; the open fridge was probably freezing his balls.
“Uh… no. Thanks. Sparkling water?”
He pulled two bottles out of the fridge, strolled over to the island and slid one across to me. “Glass? Ice?”
I cracked the bottle open. Some fancy brand with a gold label, probably owned by a rapper. “No, thanks.”
“Lime wedge? Anything?”
“No. Thank you.”
He leaned on one hip against the island, looking at me, like he had no idea what to do about me. He seemed out of sorts somehow. Because I didn’t want anything?
“You don’t need to do anything for me,” I told him.
