Page 14 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Hopper

T rue to form, my new assistant has started out every day of our first week without Tru with that thing outside my door.

I jump out of my skin when the first gong sounds just like I have every fucking morning since it showed up here, but I manage to keep my cursing to a minimum.

I hear giggles and muffled voices, so she must be giving Cindi a go too.

Joke’s on her today, though, because I’m fully dressed, having set my own alarm to wake up before the she-demon even got here.

I even had time to respond to an email from my bank that made me mildly ill.

It was asking if I want to continue the outgoing personal wire transfers to Carl Donnach I set up three years ago.

I really fucking don’t. I can think of several other places I’d rather send this eye-watering sum to every month.

But his face popped up in my mind, making my stomach churn.

I grimaced before remembering I don’t have to deal with this myself.

I called Mabel to handle it, renewing the transfers but also doubling the monthly philanthropic donations.

“Double them for whom?” she asked.

“All of them.”

“Hopper! That’s more than half your income…unless you do another Laser film.”

Mabel’s been pushing hard for me to keep those movies up. They’re bread and butter income, she says. Good for my “difficult” reputation, since kids love them.

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “The money part. Not Laser.” It’s not that I don’t like kids. It’s just complicated.

When the engine sounded outside a few minutes after I hung up, my heart jumped like a teenager seeing their crush. Chris is not my crush, obviously. I don’t have those. She’s like a smart-ass ray of sunshine. Who has sexy hair and smells good.

I whip open my door.

Chris cries out in surprise. She was just about to take a swing.

Instead, her arms fly up, her hand releasing the giant drumstick.

We watch, me with curiosity, her with horror, as it flies through the air, spinning top over bottom, narrowly missing Cindi’s sourdough starter.

It lands with a plop in a giant vase of flowers on the kitchen island.

As if in slow motion, the vase teeters over, thudding onto the marble countertop.

It’s too heavy to break, but a lake of water creeps across the counter in the direction of Chris’s tablet.

Shit. Chris runs, but she’s so short I beat her and the water just walking there. I casually swipe up the device, holding it out lazily as she skids to a stop in front of me .

“Don’t tell me I don’t do anything nice for you,” I say, aware I started this.

“ Nice ?” Chris snatches the tablet from me.

I look her over properly for the first time.

One of my new favorite things to do every morning is try to guess what she’ll be wearing.

I played a single dad in a movie once, and my eight-year-old costar used to make me play Barbie with her between takes.

She’d dress them up in these wildly mismatched outfits that somehow always look good: a frilly pink skirt, tiny green jacket, a purple purse shaped like a block.

Or a blue ball gown with green sneakers.

It finally clicked that Chris dresses like this too, though I didn’t really notice until she started wearing colors a couple of days ago.

Only a little, but they’re there. This morning, she’s wearing the girlie version of a Canadian tuxedo—a jean skirt and a denim jacket.

But she’s put on a green lace top under the jacket and these black tights with moon patterns all over them.

Yesterday she was wearing this little blue business dress with a huge pink belt.

I fucking love it.

I want to keep staring, but today’s shirt dips kind of low in the front, and I have to avert my eyes at the way the tablet Chris crushes against her chest pushes everything up.

Unfortunately this sends a shock of awareness right down to my crotch.

I don’t know why, since there are boobs in my face all the fucking time in my business.

Luckily, Chris is glaring at me, so my eyes quickly land on her face.

Unluckily, she looks fucking adorable when she glares.

She squints so hard it looks like she’s trying to read the text on the side of an aspirin bottle.

It’s almost as adorable as that little flicker of joy that flashes in those eyes every time she tells me off.

I fold my arms, all nonchalant. “I told you the gong was unnecessary. Guess the universe agreed with me.”

“That wasn’t the universe, you weirdly chipper galoot. That was your alarm clock.”

“Alarm clock? Ga loot ? Not doing that grandpa reputation any favors, bangles.”

She flushes. “How’s your back?”

I did pull my back a little yesterday with that damn trainer Aziz sicced on me, and she knows it. “Fine, thank you for asking.”

She smirks.

I’m only six years older than her, but I let her have this one for the sole reason that I very much enjoy the shade of pink that’s flooded her cheeks.

It’s the same shade she went yesterday when I caught her looking at me over her latte mug.

After I raised a brow over my weights, the color went deeper.

It had me wondering if her skin does that in other circumstances too.

Or would that turn her cherry? I may or may not have looked up a color chart when I couldn’t sleep last night.

And now I’m picturing myself making every attempt to get her to turn cherry-tomato red as I?—

I grab a kitchen towel and slap it on the puddle to get that deeply inappropriate image out of my head. But I don’t even get to cleaning it up before Cindi appears out of nowhere, yanking it away from me.

I jump, startled. “Jesus!”

“Get away from this kitchen, young man,” she snaps.

“I’m just trying to help. ”

“Out!”

Cindi rights the vase, rearranging the flowers.

“I’m sorry, Cindi,” Chris says. “Can I help?”

“Not your fault, love.” Cindi glares pointedly at me. I grab the gong stick off the counter before she gets violent.

Chris hustles after me, pulling the stick out of my hand and deftly wiping the dripping end on her thigh before hanging it on the hook on the side of the instrument. “You could have told me you were awake.”

“And take away baby’s favorite toy?” I barely manage to get that one out. I’m still distracted by the move she just made, which should not have been as sexy as it was. Something about the stick and her leg and the sheen of water still glossing up her inner thigh.

The flush comes back to her cheeks.

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, leaning in. “Raspberry,” I say.

“What?”

“Nothing. We’re late, aren’t we?” I stretch like I’m bored rather than deeply invested in watching her every move.

“No, we’re not late.” Chris examines my face like I’m hiding state secrets. “What’s raspberry?”

“My favorite fruit.”

Though she’s kind of strawberry-hued now. Maybe that’s my favorite.

“That’s a berry, not a—ugh. Never mind.”

Her chin’s tilted up to glare at me, and I can’t resist leaning over to make her do it more. She’s so responsive. I bet if I touched her in some sensitive— fuck , there goes my brain again. “What are you,” I ask to get my mind out of the gutter, “five four? Four five?”

“Height jokes,” she scoffs. “How original. What are you? Six bore ?”

I inch closer, just to see what she’ll do. “Good one.” I lower my voice. “Six three.”

She says nothing, but cranes her neck up to the top of my head, as if measuring for herself. Then she drops her eyes again. She takes a step back, looking embarrassed. It’s like she remembered I’m not just some everyday guy she’s arguing with. In this moment, I wish I were.

Doesn’t mean I won’t give her shit for it.

“Yes, bangles, it’s really me. You want me to sign something? I think Tru keeps headshots in the office.”

Chris’s mouth drops, that full bottom lip wide and glossy.

I’ve never wanted to taste anything more.

The thought, though, is enough to slap me in the face. I take a step back, my blood rushing in my ears.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I don’t mix with my employees. I saw enough of that growing up to see just how ugly it can get. But Chris is the first person in a long time to seriously tempt me into changing my mind about that. If I were interested in that shit right now, which I’m not.

She’s certainly not either. She hates my guts, which is perfect.

Chris snaps her pretty mouth shut, smiling. “Actually, yes, I’d love some headshots.”

She spins and heads down the hallway, surprising me. A moment later, she’s back with a photo and a marker.

I narrow my eyes. “You seriously want me to sign that?” This is not her style at all.

“Yes, please.” She hands me the photo and the marker. “Don’t personalize it.”

I hesitate. But I go back to the island, signing it with a slash of black at the bottom, too curious about what she’s planning to do to refuse.

She takes it back from me a moment later, smiling happily. Too happily.

“You going to sell that on eBay?”

“Good idea! Once I’m done with it.”

“Done with—” Then I narrow my eyes. Because suddenly I understand. Black marker. Huge photograph of my face. Devious grin. I walked right into this.

Chris cracks her knuckles and gets to work.

Missing teeth is the first alteration, with buck teeth in the front. Devil horns come next.

“I hate it when they airbrush all the realistic parts out, don’t you?” she says, marker chirping. She starts to hum.

“Chris,” I say. “Isn’t this kind of juvenile?”

“No way! This is art.”

She draws an unholy amount of hair sticking out of my ears. Then…“What is that?” I ask as she draws wavy stink lines coming out of my mouth. But my question is answered when she doodles fish bones and toxic waste symbols.

I hold a hand in front of my mouth, breathing out and sniffing. I’m minty fucking fresh.