I cleared my throat and finished, “You’re already here. Let’s go over everything now.”
Her hazel eyes went to the side before she admitted, “I have my stuff in the car. Are you sure?”
“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”
I’ll just come up with an excuse to see you tomorrow, too.
Her expression lit with something other than worry. “I’ll grab my bag.”
I waited until she—and the view of her tight ass—was out of the room before letting out a groan that was half sexual frustration and half regular frustration.
The latter grew as I walked through the house, becoming more embarrassed as I went. The place was a fucking dump.
Slowing enough to pick my camera out of one of the few potted plants, I continued into the main living room—the only one I used. I collapsed onto the couch before launching forward to wipe away the white powder residue from the coffee table. For once, the residual coke wasn’t mine, but I doubted Greer would care about the logistics.
Just as I finished, she came in with the leather portfolio she’d had at her interview and Hullywod.
Lifting the camera at the last second, I snapped a picture, hoping she was in frame.
She immediately glared. “What was that for?”
“Posterity. Have to commemorate your first day of work.”
“I thought the meeting was my first day?”
“Yeah, but I was running behind and didn’t have my camera then.”
She shook her head and scanned the coke-free table in front of me. “Where’s your scheduling stuff?”
“I’ll grab it.”
Knowing better than to leave the camera, I brought it with me as I backtracked to the kitchen. I put it in a cabinet out of Greer’s reach before getting what I needed. I returned to see her sitting on the floor with the coffee table between her and the spot on the couch where I’d been.
“You can sit on the couch,” I said, gesturing to it. “There’s a little room.”
Her lips tipped since she could sprawl out and still only take up one-fifth of the thing. “I’m good.”
“We can use the kitchen island,” I offered, wishing I had a table. Or at least a surface that hadn’t been dusted with blow.
“That’s okay. This gives me room and reach.” When I tossed the papers and my cell in front of her, her brows lowered. “What’s this?”
“My schedule.”
“These are sticky notes,” she said slowly like I didn’t know.
“Yup.”
“And your phone.”
“Yup,” I repeated.
She touched the screen before holding it up for me to unlock, but I rattled off the passcode instead. She tapped it in and swiped through the few screens of apps to bring up the calendar. “There’s nothing here.”
“Check my email and my texts with Alex.”
She loaded the texts first and scrolled. “You don’t use a calendar.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Production sends one out.”
