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He looks down at my boot. “I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”
“I’m not selling anything. I?—”
“Are you a fan?”
“Uh…no.”
“Are you a call girl?” he asks. “Because I don’t pay for sex.”
My jaw hits the ground. “Do I look like a call girl?”
I’m wearing winter galoshes, the kind that are tan on the bottom and blue around the ankle. Skinny jeans. A puffy jacket that hits me mid-thigh. A hat with a pom-pom on top. Not exactly seductive wear. Although call girls probably wear all sorts of different outfits, right?
He scowls and gives me a quick once-over. “I guess not,” he says, like he isn’t sure.
I’m beyond curious why his brain jumped from me selling something to being a fan to being a call girl, but before I can question him further, he says, “Do I need to call security?”
This is not going how I expected it would. “Cam sent me,” I say hastily.
He slowly pulls the door open farther. “My agent sent you to my apartment?”
I nod rapidly. “He did. My name is Ellie West.”
And then, because things aren’t awkward enough, I thrust my hand forward. He doesn’t seem inclined to shake it, so I lean, just a little, and grab the hand that’s hanging by his side. I pull it up and give it a nice firm shake. His grip tightens and his eyes narrow, but he says nothing. I release his hand and it drops back to his side.
He doesn’t budge from the doorway. Not that I blame him. The stalker types probably don’t knock and introduce themselves, but with the lack of security in this place, it pays to be cautious. Especially if the only people who knock on his door want something from him.
“Cam should have called you. Why didn’t he call?” I mumble to myself. Then, louder, I say, “He asked me to swing by and help you out for a bit…”
This time there is a flicker of something in his eyes. Annoyance. Curiosity. I can’t be sure. Before I get the chance to decipher his expression, it clears and he says, “I don’t need help.”
“Cam thinks you do.”
He looks pained as he rubs his hand over the scruff on his chin. “Why?”
“Well…uhhh.” How do I explain that my sister convinced me to show up at his apartment and force my friendship—I mean, assistance—on him because Cam thinks he’s having a hard time dealing with his most recent professional failure?
My mouth stays open, but nothing comes out.
He holds up his hand. “I’m not interested in your help,” he states. He shakes his head slightly. “But thank you.” He starts to push the door closed again.
I grimace. I’m not explaining myself very well. Maybe I need to be more specific. “Cam thinks you need support. He asked me if I could be your assistant, but I think he just wants to be certain you’re alright.”
He gives me a look. “I’m fine and I don’t need an assistant. What would I do with an assistant?”
“Anything you want.” I barely withhold a wince at the suggestiveness of that statement. I just got through telling him I’m not a call girl. “I can run errands. Shop for groceries. Pick up your dry cleaning. Post photos of you working out on social media. Ooh…I can rent one of those standing scooters and ride along next to you while you jog.” That sounds fun.
He’s not impressed by my ideas. “I don’t need a running buddy. Or someone to run errands. And Judy handles my publicity.”
“This isn’t about publicity.” Between talking to Kelsey and driving over here, I took a crash course in all things Slater Jones. “This is about your…” I trail off because I want to say mental health, but I’m not sure how he’ll take that.
“I’ve been dealing with this for years. I already said I’m fine.”
“Really?” I wrinkle my nose. “You haven’t shaved in a while. You don’t look like you’ve showered today. Are you eating regularly? Exercising? Sleeping?” I pause, and then add, “Brushing your teeth?”
“It’s the offseason,” he says defensively.
“You won’t shave, bathe, or brush your teeth again until next season?” I can’t help needling him. He’s making it so easy. Humor will help us connect.
