Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) by Rachel Gibson Page A

tough.
    “This appointment shouldn’t take more than an hour,” his assistant said as she turned onto First Avenue and headed north. “I should have you at the Spitfire and your interview with Sports Illustrated right on time.”
    He couldn’t recall ever agreeing to the interview in the first place, but he must have. When he’d talked to his sports agent about it, he must have been high on morphine or he never would have agreed to be interviewed when he wasn’t one hundred percent. Normally his agent, Ron Dorcey, wouldn’t have pushed it either, but with Mark’s name fading from the sports pages, and endorsement deals drying up faster than a puddle of water in the Mojave, Ron had arranged one of the last interviews likely to come Mark’s way.
    He would have much preferred the interview take place next month or even next week when his head was a little clearer. When he’d had a chance to think about what he wanted to say in what would likely be one of the last articles written about him. He wasn’t prepared, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to get himself interviewed today . In person.
    Wait—he did know. Somehow he’d let a little bit of a woman bully him into doing it. He didn’t care that getting the interview over and done was easiest in the long run, not to mention the right thing to do. He’d let her push him around like he didn’t outweigh her by a good hundred pounds. Now she was driving his car like her name was on the pink slip.
    Earlier, when she’d offered herself as his assistant instead of a health care worker, for one brief moment he’d thought, Why the hell not? No more waiting around for a car service might make him feel less dependent. But in reality he felt more dependent and less capable of taking care of himself. Health care workers wanted to manage his pain. Chelsea Ross clearly wanted to manage his life. He didn’t need her and he didn’t want her around.
    Mark brushed his thumb along the cool metal cane. Back to the original plan. No more Mr. Nice Guy. By the time he returned home that afternoon, he’d have her ready to quit. The thought of her peeling out of his driveway brought a genuine smile to his face.
     
     
    “I got a text from the Sports Illustrated reporter a few minutes ago and she’s set up in the VIP room,” Chelsea said as she and Mark moved toward the entrance of the Spitfire. The sounds of the city surrounded them, and the cool breeze blowing off the bay brushed her face as she glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. She’d done a good job. She’d had him in and out of the John Louis Salon in time for his Sports Illustrated interview. That had to count for something. Had to show him that she was good at her job and that he needed her. “Her name is Donda Clark and she said the interview shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
    He looked good too. The back of his dark hair barely brushed the collar of his T-shirt and the tops of his ears. He looked clean-cut. Handsome. Manly.
    She’d been worried.
    The John Louis Salon catered to an alternative clientele. Edgy. Emo. And Chelsea had worried that Mark would come out with guyliner and Pete Wentz or Flock of Seagulls hair.
    “After I get you settled with the reporter, I have to run over to the Chinooks’ offices.” She had to sign some insurance papers, and the offices were only about five blocks away. “Call me if you’re done early.”
    “The last time I saw my cell phone was the night of the accident.” From behind his sunglasses, he glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the sidewalk. “I assume it’s in the mangled Hummer somewhere.”
    She knew he had a home phone, but how could anyone live without text messaging for six months? She’d been in Seattle less than two weeks and she’d already changed her number and her plan. “Who’s your carrier?”
    “Verizon. Why?”
    “I’ll get you a new phone,” she said as she opened the door to the lounge and followed him inside.