Looking to Score(18)
Oakley: Are you sure you want to know?
Me: I would. That’s why I’m asking. Are you high? They have mandatory drug testing next week.
Oakley: You’re doing a good job, Solver.
I let out a sigh of relief. Did this mean that he was going to give a good report?
Me: Thanks, Problem
I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to the condo since I had a class in less than two hours. So I headed over to a local coffee shop to start researching some volunteer ideas for Oakley. I ordered a small Americano. Eleven calories, thank you! And after finding a big cozy chair, I pulled out my laptop and broke out my mad Google skills. “Volunteer, Make a Difference” was the first result. I clicked the link and scrolled through. Community outreach, Meals on Wheels, and fundraising. There was also a link for high school outreach. After what happened at the frat house, I just noped right on by that one.
There were opportunities at the animal shelter. Puppies were cute. But not really enough publicity there. Unless we made a calendar? I involuntarily pictured Oakley, firefighter style, shirtless and holding a sweet little puppy for May. Maybe I could get Dr. Haynes to volunteer to be Mr. June? Also shirtless, but with a kitten. Meow!
As I was talking myself out of adding the calendar to my list of ideas to send to Dr. Haynes, something caught my eye. Senior outreach. As in the elderly, not this year’s graduating class. That would be perfect! Oakley could go to the senior center for one afternoon, play some board games, help serve a meal, and keep the residents company. I could arrange for a photographer and a blogger from the university, and everything could be wrapped up in only a couple of hours.
I put the senior center at the top of my list, along with packing meals for starving children and Habitat for Humanity. I typed out a quick message to Dr. Haynes, including how I was excited to hear feedback from his meeting with Oakley, and hit send. I glanced at my Fitbit, both to see the time and how many steps I had taken so far. I had time to power walk to the cafeteria to grab a salad and then make it to my next class.
9
“This place smells like urine and perfume,” Oakley grumbled while I slapped a name tag onto his muscular chest. I smoothed the sticker a little bit more than I had to and blamed the lingering touch on my lack of sleep the night before. I had three papers due and a test in sports management. Even though most of my time was allocated to this internship, my other classes were kicking into full gear too.
“And you smell like Cheetos and boxed wine,” I replied with an eye roll and pulled away. “How late were you out last night?”
“I figured you knew. Weren’t you up late watching the GPS on my phone?” I could have slapped the teasing grin off his perfect face. But I didn’t.
Instead, I rolled my eyes again. He wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t trying to intrusively break our rules about space and privacy. Dr. Haynes made it clear that I needed to respect his boundaries and work within the constraints of his lifestyle. We were meant to clean up messes, not completely prevent them from happening. We could guide and inform but not control our clients—just control how the public perceives them. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t constantly refreshing his social media to make sure a sex tape wasn’t leaked. How Oakley Davis partied this hard while staying in pristine shape was seriously a mystery to me.
“You got home two hours ago and still managed to show up on time. I’d say I was impressed, but we both know I set four hundred alarms on your phone. Are you even sober?”
“I’m sober enough,” he purred, licking his lips.
The photographer and blogger were both running late. I should have called them this morning, but I supposed not everyone shared my appreciation for punctuality. “They told us to visit with”—I checked the paper in my hand before continuing—“Cassandra Kitchen? Her late husband played professional football. I figured it would be good for you to chat with her. Apparently Albert Kitchen was well respected in the NFL.”
“Wait,” Oakley interrupted, jarring my eyes back to him. It really wasn’t fair how good he looked for having so little sleep. It took me two hours to get ready this morning. “Albert Kitchen? As in the...” He started spouting a ton of stats and football jargon that I was not interested enough to listen to.
“I guess?”
His lips stretched into a wide smile. “Sweet! Meeting his wife will be really cool. Think she has any photos of him?”
It was kind of adorable to see him acting like a kid. He was positively giddy. This was exactly the type of moment I wanted the photographer to capture. Where was he? “Hold on just a second, I’m going to try and get a hold of the photographer,” I told Oakley and pulled out my phone. I found the email chain with his information. Nick Bell. I clicked Nick’s phone number, and it started ringing.
“Yeah?” Nick answered.
“Nick? This is Amanda Matthews, Oakley Davis’s publicist. I’m at the retirement center with Oakley. What’s your ETA?” I asked, sounding politely irritated. I didn’t see why it was so hard for everybody else to take their jobs as seriously as I took mine.
“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” Nick answered and then hung up. I didn’t have to repeat the same process with the blogger, because she had magically arrived while I was on the phone with Nick and was now practically hanging off of Oakley. What the fuck, girl, have some professionalism. I was more bothered than I should have been, seeing her flirting with Oakley.