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Chelsea held up one finger as the salon picked up. “John Louis Salon. This is Isis.”
“Hello, Isis. My name is Chelsea Ross and I work for Mark Bressler. He has an important interview and photo shoot with Sports Illustrated this afternoon at one o’clock. Is there any way you can get him in for a cut and blow?”
“Cut and blow? Jesus,” the grump behind the desk contin ihe desknued to grumble.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Isis assured her in a tone usually used by uppity receptionists in snooty salons.
“We’ll be grateful if—” The bitch put her on hold.
“Even if I get my hair cut, I’m still not doing the interview.”
Chelsea moved the phone away from her mouth. “What’s your next objection?”
“I’m not dressed for it,” he said, but she knew that was a lie too. She hadn’t a clue why he didn’t want to do the interview, but she doubted it had anything to do with the way he looked. Which, even she had to admit, was absolutely gorgeous in a casual, scruffy way that only truly good-looking men could get away with. Too bad he was such a jerk.
“Well, since it’s just an interview and not a photo shoot, I don’t think it matters.”
“You said photo shoot.”
“Yeah, I may have prevaricated.”
“You lied.”
Isis came back on the line, and Chelsea returned the phone to her mouth. “Yes.”
“We have a two o’clock opening.”
“I need to have him cut and blown and on his way out the door by twelve-forty-five.”
“Well, I don’t think we can help you.”
“Let me talk to your manager because I’m fairly sure he or she will want to take credit for making the captain of the Chinooks’ hockey team look good in a magazine that is read by millions worldwide.” She looked across the room at a big poster of Mark all geared up and shooting a puck. “Or I can just as easily chose another salon if you—” She pulled the phone away from her face and stared at it. “Bitch did it again,” she muttered, and moved to the framed poster. Mark didn’t look all that different in the poster than he did today. Maybe a little meaner. His brown eyes a little more intense as he stared out from beneath the black helmet on his head. She studied his eyes and then glanced over her shoulder to study him. “What are you doing?” she asked as she watched him pick up the phone on his desk.
“Calling the service to send a car.”
“There’s no need. It’s my job to get you to your appointments. I’ll drive you.”
“In what?”
“My car.”
He pointed the phone at the front of the house. “That piece of shit in my driveway?”
She held up her finger once more as Isis came back on the line.
“We can get Mr. Bressler in at noon.”
“Fabulous. What’s the address?” She moved to the desk and wrote on a sticky note before flipping her phone closed and dropping it in her bag. “You don’t like the Honda, fine. What wheels do you have in your garage?”
He set the phone back i" w phone n the cradle. “You want to drive my vehicle?”
It wasn’t unheard of. She’d driven her former employers around in their cars all the time. The more D list, the more they’d wanted to appear as if they had drivers. “Sure.”
“You’re fucking nuts if you think I’m going to let you drive my car. I saw the dents in your Honda.”
“Minor parking lot dings,” she assured him. “Isn’t your car insured?”
“Of course.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his wide chest.
