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“No. Thanks, I’m just having a moment. I’ll get it together.”
She held the door open. She was pretty sure she shouldn’t bring coffee into the booth. He didn’t move. “If you’d come this way.” There was a lounge area adjacent to the control room. She could settle him there. He went to follow her and his foot nudged the leg of the lectern. He put his hand out to steady it and knocked his tablet off the edge. She moved to try to catch it but it went down, bounced on a corner and landed face first, missing the rug and hitting the wooden floor with a clatter.
Damon put his hand over his face. “Tell me I haven’t killed it.”
She picked it up. The screen was dark. She tried to boot it and got nothing, then noticed the crack in the plastic housing. “It’s not looking good.”
Damon laughed. He held his hand out and she put the tablet in it. He tried the on button too and got nothing. “I was sure I right-sided the bed this morning.”
She’d expected anything other than humour. He’d clearly been embarrassed and tense before she came in, now that he’d necked his tech he might well be furious.
“We can print the script for you. Sixteen point?”
“Call it twenty-four and it’s a deal.”
The script would be a book printed that size. “Coffee first?”
“Makes the world go around.”
He took a step towards her; far too close, he had no respect for personal space. She went through the door and he followed. The lounge area was just outside, but she escorted him to it, looking for Trent. “Take a seat and I’ll be back.”
He kind of collapsed into the lounge, which was low to the ground, and sat with his head in his hands. If he had a headache why didn’t he take a pill, or call a break, or anything other than this martyred act? She’d had enough of the martyr routine to last a lifetime, having been taught to detest it by an expert.
She left him and made for the staff kitchen. Lauren, the receptionist was there. “Trent asked me to make coffee, and there are pastries too,” she said. “Can I take it through to him?”
“Fantastic.” Save her playing waitress. “Where is Trent?” She couldn’t leave Damon on his own or with Lauren, who was a too breathless fan girl, although maybe he’d enjoy that?
“He had to take a call.”
Lauren took the coffee and she detoured to the office area. Trent had a phone to his ear and his eyes on his screen. She didn’t want to go back into the studio. All her highly tuned helpmate instincts were on high alert. Something was wrong with Damon, but she’d left England, taken this job to avoid men with problems, to avoid the feeling she was put on earth to serve them.
Trent looked up with wild eyes. Whoever he was talking to was giving him an earful. She hovered over her own desk, knowing the right thing to do was to go and sit with Damon, knowing she was an idiot to be freaked out about it. She’d never see this guy again, what did it matter what his problem was, and it was nothing to do with her anyway.
She could at least make herself useful getting the script organised. She logged on, opened up the job file and searched for the script, then reformatted it. It would be a hundred and seventy-two pages printed. It would be easier for Damon to read it off the laptop than shuffle pages. She loaded the document to the desktop and unplugged her gear, then went to the studio, breezed past Lauren and Damon and set the laptop up on the lectern.
When she got back to the lounge area Lauren was gone and Damon nursed a mug in his hands. “I’m ready to start again.” He scooted forward and put his free hand on the glass-topped coffee table, then put the mug down and stood. He had a deliberate, almost mechanical way of moving. The opposite of the poetry you expected from a body like his. Was he always like this or should he lying down in a dark room with a cool towel over his head?
None of her business. Thank God. If the man wanted to work through illness it was nothing to her, even if she’d clenched her hands to stop the desire to feel his forehead. She did not need to get involved with this. She was detached, this was just a job, she didn’t know him, and he wasn’t her responsibility.
She opened the iso booth door for him and he went through and stood at the lectern. She went to the control room and turned the intercom on. “The printed script was more than a hundred pages. I thought this would be easier. The document is open and the print size is twenty-four. If the screensaver has gone on, the password is Password with a capital P. And I know I need to change that.”
He frowned at the laptop, a gorgeous lightweight silver machine that came with the job. He looked up at her through the glass. “I think I need you to fix the screensaver for me.”
She toggled off the intercom and groaned. But okay, maybe he wasn’t an Apple man, or he was too famous to type in a simple password. She toggled. “I’ll come in.” There was still no sign of Trent. She went into the booth.
He said, “Georgia,” in the odd, questioning way that wasn’t a question.
She moved beside him and unlocked the screen. “Now you’re ready.”
He touched her shoulder. “Thank you. Sorry to be a pain in the arse.”
She sent a quick smile his way, left the booth, and waited for Trent in the control room until Damon said. “Ready, set, go when you are.”
She frowned. He must think she’d go ahead without Trent. Of course she could, but that wasn’t the plan. “Just waiting for Trent.”
“Okay.”
They waited. The laptop would no doubt have timed out again.
