Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5)
“And put you on my friends and family plan.”
    He pushed his glasses to the top of his head and said something about going ahead and killing himself. The scent and sizzle of carnitas and sliders hit her nostrils and made her stomach growl. The dim interior was lit with track lighting, white globes, and chandeliers. Forty-two-inch flat-screen televisions hung among local artwork and flashed with major sports events. The bar’s clientele was an eclectic mix of upwardly mobile and laid-back grunge. Knit hats and business suits all mingled inside the sports lounge.
    A decent lunch crowd filled the tables and booths as Chelsea followed Mark through the bar. Heads turned as they passed, and she didn’t fool herself that all that attention was directed at her. Over the hum of voices, people called out his name. He lifted his bad hand in acknowledgment, the dim light shining on the aluminum of his splint.
    Chelsea was used to walking into a restaurant and seeing all eyes turn to her employers. A time or two, she’d purposely created attention for them by posing as a fan or faux paparazzi. This energy was different from anything she’d ever experienced. This wasn’t superficial celebrity adoration. This was real and bigger than any of the B, C, or D listers she’d ever worked for.
    “Good to see you, Hitman,” the bartender called out to him as they passed. “Can I get you anything?”
    “No thanks. Not right now.”
    Chelsea bit the side of her lip. Hitman?
    The Sports Illustrated reporter sat on a red leather sofa in the back of the lounge; her long blond hair curled about her shoulders and shone in the subdued light. The reporter stood as they approached and moved from behind a large cocktail table. She wore a red bird’s-eye jacket and pencil skirt that hit her at mid-thigh. She was tall and gorgeous and perfectly proportioned, everything that Chelsea was not. Oh, Chelsea could buy that exact shade of blond and she planned to have her breasts reduced to fit her body, but she would never have those long legs.
    “Hello, I’m Chelsea Ross.” Chelsea shook the woman’s slender hand. “Mr. Bressler’s assistant.”
    “It’s nice to meet you,” the reporter said, but her eyes were transfixed on the man behind Chelsea. “You’re a hard man to pin down,” she said as she dropped Chelsea’s hand and reached for Mark. “I’m Donda Clark.”
    He switched his cane to his right hand. “Mark Bressler.”
    “Yes, I know.” She smiled and motioned toward the seat next to her on the sofa. “I caught the game in Detroit last December.”
    A tight smile curved Mark’s lips. “That was one of the last games I played.” He moved to the sofa, placed his good hand on the arm, and slowly sat. The corners of his mouth tightened even more, and Chelsea wondered if he was up to the interview. He seemed so strong, it was easy to forget that he’d been near death just a few months prior.
    “I thought Detroit might turn it over after Leclaire drew a double minor in the third frame, but the Chinooks’ firepower clearly overwhelmed the Red Wings.”
    Wow, what an ass kisser . “Can I get anything for the two of you before I go?” Chelsea asked.
    “I’d like a Chablis,” Donda answered as she sat and dug a tape recorder out of her bag. “Thank you.”
    “Mr. Bressler?”
    He took the glasses from the top of his head and shoved one side down the collar of his T-shirt. “Water.”
    Chelsea moved to the bar and wondered if Donda noticed the pain etched in the side of Mark’s mouth and if she’d write about it.
    “What can I get you, sweetheart?” the bartender asked as his gaze landed on her chest. She was so used to guys’ reaction to her breasts, it didn’t anger her as much as it once had. Annoy, yes. Anger, no.
    Chelsea waited a few seconds before his gaze moved up to hers. “House Chablis and a glass of ice water.” She looked at the name tag clipped to his blue polo. “Colin.”
    He smiled. The cocky smile

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