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After I grabbed everything else I’d need that day, I ran into the living room. Big surprise, Harper wasn’t there yet. I went over to his bedroom door and listened to make sure I heard the shower running, which it was. Then I went over to the couch and dumped the armload of things I was carrying.
By the time he joined me several minutes later, I’d finished getting dressed, messaged the driver again, and called room service with a desperate plea for food and coffee ASAP. I ran into his room and grabbed his suit, then quickly packed a garment bag as he asked, “Why’d you unpack all of that in the first place?”
“To keep it from wrinkling.”
“The show’s wardrobe assistant is going to steam out the wrinkles anyway.”
“I also wanted to make sure we had everything.”
“How are things going to disappear from a zipped bag?”
I blurted, “You know I’m about two seconds from snapping, right? Now is not the time to argue with me, Harper!”
“Who’s arguing? I’m just asking questions.”
Once I finally got everything packed up, I rushed back to the living room with the outfit, grabbed my messenger bag, and raced out of the suite. Harper sauntered after me. When we reached the lobby, a manager from guest services was waiting for us with two lattes and the boxed breakfast I’d ordered. I thanked him profusely before herding Harper out the door.
He had a lot more pep in his step now that coffee had been acquired. We settled into the backseat of the black town car, and after tossing back half the latte, Harper turned to look at me and smiled. Then he reached up and pulled a comb from my damp, shaggy hair. I swore under my breath, took it from him, and finished running it through my tangles as he asked, “How late are we?”
“A solid twenty minutes,” I said. “At least the studio’s not far, but driving through Manhattan is never quick.”
“That’s it? I figured we were a couple of hours late, judging by how much it wound you up.”
“No, that would have been disastrous. Also, I really have to apologize. It was my job to get you to the studio on time, and I failed to set an alarm.”
He grinned flirtatiously and said, “It’s my fault, because I dick-stracted you.”
“Oh my God. You did not just say dick-stracted.”
“I did.”
“Never say that again. Seriously. Never.”
He dragged it out and sharpened each syllable. “Dick…stracted.”
“Why must you torture me?”
He looked amused. “I can’t help myself. It’s just so easy to ruffle your feathers, and you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
“Instead of annoying me, eat some breakfast.” I gestured at the white box on the seat.
“I have a hangover headache, which automatically vetoes the food idea.”
I muttered some random complaints under my breath, then sent a message to my contact on Tommy Allen’s staff to let her know we were on our way. When she replied and told me two other guests were running even later than we were, that took some of the pressure off.
I flipped open my messenger bag and pulled out a plastic case stuffed with over-the-counter medicines, everything from six different types of painkillers to allergy meds and cold and flu remedies. I shook two ibuprofen tablets into my palm and handed them to Harper, who washed them down with coffee before asking, “Can I have a bottle of water?” I handed him one from my bag. “How about a granola bar?” I produced a gallon-sized zip-top bag with five different varieties. “Do you have any earplugs?”
When I pulled out a box of disposable earplugs, Harper started to laugh. I asked, “What’s so funny?”
“You and that bottomless bag of wonders. Just so you know, you overshot being the greatest personal assistant of all time and landed squarely in type-A-mom-with-a-diaper-bag territory.”
“Since every client I’ve ever worked for has basically been an overgrown toddler, that’s pretty apt.”
“Except for me, right?”
I shot him a look and asked, “What do you think?”
He flashed me a smile. “I love the fact that you don’t feel you have to sugarcoat anything with me.”
“Oh, believe me, normally I’d be sugarcoating the hell out of everything I said to you. But since I’m planning to quit the second we land in California tomorrow, I seem to have zero fucks left to give.”
He exclaimed, “You can’t quit! Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
I lowered my voice, even though the privacy window was up between us and the driver. “Because of what happened last night.”
“Last night, two consenting adults enjoyed the hell out of each other,” he said. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Plenty, since one of them signs the other’s paycheck.”
“What difference does that make?”
I frowned and asked, “Do I really have to explain this to you?”
After a moment, he conceded, “Okay, I can see why that might make things a little awkward, but I have a solution. From now on, I’ll fire you right before we fuck, and then I’ll rehire you afterwards.” He was joking, but I could tell part of him actually thought that was a good idea.
