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“Do you watch The Bold and the Beautiful?”
“The what?”
She laughed. “If you’re hungry, I could make you a sandwich.”
“No.”
“Even though I don’t officially start until tomorrow, I could manage soup.”
“I said no.” He tilted the water to his lips and looked at her over the end of the clear plastic. The bottom of her hair really wadivair reas a weird shade. Not quite red and not quite pink, and he had to wonder if she’d dyed the carpet to match the curtains. A few years ago, a Chinooks’ fan had dyed her pubes blue and green to show her support. Mark hadn’t seen the woman up close and personal, but he had seen the photos.
“Well, you just turned down a once-in-a-lifetime offer. I never cook for my employer. It sets a bad precedent, and to be totally honest, I suck in the kitchen,” she said through a big grin, which might have been cute if it wasn’t so annoying.
God, he hated cheerful people. Time to piss her off and get her to leave. “You don’t sound Russian.”
“I’m not.”
He lowered the bottle as he lowered his gaze to her orange leather jacket. “So why are you dressed like you’re just off the boat?”
She glanced down at her dress and pointed out, “It’s my Pucci.”
Mark was pretty sure she hadn’t said “pussy,” but it had sure sounded like it. “I’m going to go blind looking at you.”
She glanced up and the corners of her blue eyes narrowed. He couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or yell. “That’s not very nice.”
“I’m not very nice.”
“Not very politically correct either.”
“Now there’s something that keeps me awake at night.” He took another drink. He was tired and hungry and wanted to sit down before he fell down. Maybe nod off during a court TV show. In fact, he was missing Judge Joe Brown. He pointed toward the front of the house. “The door’s that way. Don’t let it hit your ass on your way out.”
She laughed again as if she was a few bricks short. “I like you. I think we’re going to get along great.”
She was more than a few bricks short. “Are you…” He shook his head as if he was searching for the right word. “What is the politically correct term for ‘retarded’?”
“I think the words you’re fishing for are ‘mentally disabled.’ And no. I’m not mentally disabled.”
He pointed the bottle at her jacket. “You sure?”
“Reasonably.” She shrugged and pushed away from the counter. “Although there was that time in college when I fell doing a keg stand. Knocked myself right out. I might have lost a few brain cells that night.”
“Without question.”
She reached into the pocket of her ugly jacket and pulled out a set of keys with a little heart fob. “I’ll be here tomorrow at nine.”
“I’ll be asleep.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, all cheery. “I’ll ring the doorbell until you wake up.”
“I have a shotgun loaded with buckshot,” he lied.
Her laughter followed her out of the roe rout of om. “I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Bressler.”
If she wasn’t “mentally disabled,” she was nuttier than squirrel shit. Or worse, one of those perpetually cheerful women.
What a serious asshole. Chelsea shrugged out of her leather jacket and opened the door to her Honda CR-V. A bead of sweat slid between her cleavage and wet the underwire of her bra as she tossed the jacket into the back and slid into her car. She shut the door and dug inside the hobo bag sitting on the passenger seat. She grabbed her cell phone, punched the seven numbers, and got sent straight to voice mail. “Thanks a lot, Bo.” She spoke into the phone as she pushed the key into the ignition. “When you said this guy could be difficult, you might have mentioned that he’s a straight-up tool!” She shoved the phone between her ear and shoulder, started the car with one hand, and rolled down the window with the other. “A little more forewarning might have been nice. He called me retarded and insulted my Pucci!” She flipped the phone shut and tossed it on the passenger seat. She’d saved for two months to buy her Pucci dress. What did he know about fashion? He was a hockey player.
She pulled the car out onto the street and drove past the homes of the rich and the snobby. A strong breeze blew through the window, and Chelsea pulled her dress away from her chest and let the cool air dry her skin. She was probably going to get a boob rash and it was all Mark Bressler’s fault. No, he hadn’t made her wear a leather jacket on a hot June day, but she felt like blaming him anyway. He was a jock. That was reason enough.
