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

herself. Which was okay. It would take them longer if he got out. “What do you need? Toothpaste? Deodorant? Preparation H?”
    “Box of condoms.”
    She closed her eyes and mentally pounded her head on the steering wheel. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars . “Are you sure you don’t want to get those yourself?”
    He shook his head and smiled. His straight teeth were unusually white within the shadows of the Mercedes. “As you keep reminding me, you’re my assistant. Lucky you.”
    Buying condoms was so embarrassing. Worse than maxi pads and only slightly better than the monthly Valtrex prescription she’d had to pick up for a certain young actress with a sitcom on the WB. “What size?”
    “Magnum. The ribbed kind.”
    Magnum? But of course he wore magnums. Being a big prick and all. For the hundredth time that day, she forced a smile on her face and turned once again to look at him. “Anything else?”
    “Some of that warming KY and a vibrating ring. Make sure it’s a big one.” He raised his hip and stuck the wallet back in his pocket. “I don’t want it too tight and cutting off my circulation.”
    “No. You wouldn’t want that.” This was about the longest conversation they’d had and it was about circulation to his penis. She was almost afraid to ask. “Is that it?”
    “A bag of Red Vines.” He thought for a moment and added, “I guess I better have some Tic Tacs.”
    Yes, because God forbid his breath wasn’t minty.
     
     
    By the time Mark made it home, his bones throbbed and his muscles ached. It took him only a few minutes to get rid of his little assistant. Most likely because she seemed more than happy to go. With any luck, she wouldn’t return. If the look on her face when she’d come back from buying condoms was any indication, she was probably looking up help wanted ads on Craigslist and calling for interviews at that very moment. Sending her into Bartell had been damn funny. A flash of pure brilliance and quick thinking on the fly.
    Mark downed six Vicodin straight from the bottle, grabbed his bag of Red Vines, and headed for what the Realtor had called the leisure room at the back of the house. He picked up the remote to the sixty-inch flat screen and sat in a big leather chaise that Chrissy had found somewhere. Most of the other furniture she’d bought was long gone, but he’d kept the chaise because it fit his body and was comfortable.
    With his thumb on the remote button, he flipped through the channels without really paying attention. He’d had a doctor’s appointment, haircut, and hour-long interview. It wasn’t even three yet, but he was exhausted. Before the accident, he used to run five miles and work out with weights, all before hitting the ice for practice. He was thirty-eight years old but he felt like he was seventy-eight.
    Dr. Phil flashed across the screen and he paused to watch the good doctor yell at some guy for yelling at his wife. He tore open the bag of licorice and pulled out a few. As far back as he could remember, he’d always loved red licorice. It reminded him of the Sunday matinees at the Heights Theater in Minneapolis. His grandmother had been a huge fan of the movies and had bribed him with Red Vines and root beer. Even though it was something he’d never admit out loud, he’d seen many a chick flick in the late seventies and early eighties. Everything from Kramer vs. Kramer to Sixteen Candles . He and his gran had always gone to the Sunday matinees because he’d usually had hockey games on Saturday, and also there was less of a chance that one of his friends would see him walking into a sappy movie on Sunday. His dad had usually been working second and third jobs to support him and his grandmother and to make sure Mark had the best hockey skates and equipment. One of the best days of Mark’s life was the day he signed his first multimillion-dollar contract and set up his dad so the old man could retire.
    Mark took a bite of his