He smirked. “What about the nutritionist and therapist?”
“There’s no point in me going to a therapist if I don’t want to.” I shrugged. “I’ve got to want to. First rule of therapy.”
“No therapy, no deal.”
“Well, that’s your prerogative.” I stared him down, refusing to budge on the subject.
“Skylar.”
“O’Dea.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Fine. No therapy.”
Delighted, I pushed. “And I do get to choose media outlets. I promise that I will choose some.”
“A promise isn’t good enough.”
“It will have to be. I’m not signing that contract unless it states I get to choose media outlets.”
Killian turned red with frustration. “Fine!”
Triumphant, my expression was overtly condescending. “I could see how painful that was to let me wrest away control from you. Maybe you really should see a therapist. An obsessive need to control the people around you is cause for concern.”
He ignored my teasing and said, “My suggestion came only from the genuine belief that it would help you.”
“There you go acting all noble, taking the sarcasm out of my sails.”
“Not even a hurricane could knock the sarcasm out of you.”
I nodded. “You’re learning.”
“So, we have a deal?”
“And what about Gayle? Will she be a problem?”
“Like your label, you’re only under contract with Gayle as part of Tellurian. We can find you new management if you want, or we can ask Gayle to manage you as a solo artist.”
“No. If I’m going to hell again, I want a new tour guide. Fresh eyes and all.”
“So much melodrama.” He shook his head. “New management. Fine. We’ll get a contract written up.”
I gestured to him, puzzled. “I thought there would be more excitement. If not actual jumping up and down, perhaps a lengthier smirk, a maniacal laugh, a proverbial sinister twist of an oversized imaginary mustache. You disappoint me, O’Dea.”
He stared blandly at me. “I’m squeeing on the inside.”
Amused despite myself, I smiled and then winced at the sting from my lip.
O’Dea’s gaze lowered to my mouth before rising to assess the rest of my face. “At least the swelling in your eye and cheek has gone down.”
“True, but the bruising still makes me look like a watercolor painting.”
“It’ll fade. Which takes us to the next order of business. You need new clothes and a trip to the hairdresser.”
The thought of stepping out into the public looking like this made me shudder. “Unless you want people to think I’m your battered wife, I think we better put a delay on the whole hair salon business.”
“Charmaine is coming to you. Tomorrow at noon. A haircut will make you feel more human and Charmaine knows how to be discreet.” He frowned. “But no rainbow hair.”
“If I want rainbow hair, I’ll get rainbow hair, okay. I don’t, but if I wanted it, I would.”
“Can I assume you’re going to be this difficult about everything?”
“Can I assume you’re not going to stop being a giant pain in my ass anytime soon?”
“Nutritionist,” he said, ignoring me. “My sister Autumn will be by tomorrow morning before Charmaine gets here. She’ll be letting her friend Brenna into the apartment. Brenna’s a nutritionist and she’ll be handling your dietary needs. Day after tomorrow, I have you booked into a private clinic for a health check. I’ve got a makeup artist booked for Friday morning. She’ll do your makeup so the bruises are hidden and then we’re going shopping for new clothes.”
Dazed, it took me a moment to find words. “You made appointments already? You assumed I’d say yes? And shopping? You’re taking me shopping?”
“We’ll have a personal shopper with us. But yes. And yes to your first question.” He gave me a quick, humorless grin. “I always get what I want.”
“Oh, really? Do you want a swift kick to the junk? Because I see that in your imminent future.”
He squinted as if he was considering it. “Nope,” he finally shook his head, “can’t say that I do. Not one of my kinks.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He jokes.”
“I’m giving you today to rest.” He pushed the fruit cup and pastry toward me. “There are some DVDs in the hall cupboard if you get bored. I’ll be back tonight with groceries but I have to get back to the office now. I see you’ve already found the washer/dryer so you’ll make do for clothes until Friday?”
I hated to ask, but . . .”I only have one pair of jeans. The other pair got ruined.” Grass stains. I tried not to flinch as an image of Johnny holding me down flashed before my eyes.
I blinked it away, taking a deep breath.
O’Dea didn’t notice my distress. “I’ll ask Autumn to bring you a new pair tomorrow. Size?”
I tore open the fruit cup, playing with it in my hands so I didn’t have to look at him. “Um, I used to be a four but I’m probably between a two and a zero now.”
“UK size?”
“Oh right. Then I’m between a six and a four. I used to be a UK eight.”
O’Dea was silent so long, I glanced up at him.
His expression was grim with understanding. “Brenna will get your weight and strength back up before you know it.”
Pride pricked, I scoffed, “Pity doesn’t suit you, O’Dea.”
“Funny. Because self-pity doesn’t suit you.” And on that irritating parting shot, he left the apartment. I almost threw the pastry at the doorway he’d been standing in but he wasn’t worth the loss.
I MUST HAVE BEEN TRULY exhausted because, despite having so much to worry about, I slept after I ate. And I mean I slept.
The next thing I knew I was blinking open my eyes to the feel of being rocked and a familiar masculine voice calling my name. When the blurring cleared from my hazy eyes, I tensed in bed at the sight of O’Dea sitting on it next to me. His frown disappeared as I became more cognizant.
“What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock. You slept all day?”
I pushed myself up and O’Dea abruptly stood from the bed. “I guess so.”
“I put some food in the fridge. Dinner is ready.”
“Dinner?” I shoved off the duvet and got up, the room spinning a little.
“You okay?” he asked, and I felt his warm hand grasp my arm to steady me.
“Got up too fast.” I grimaced. “I guess the attack took more out of me than I thought.”
O’Dea let me go and shook his head, something like anger tightening his features. “It’s not just the attack. It’s months of sleeping rough. You’ve exhausted yourself. And never mind what damage you’ve done to your back sleeping on a cold ground for weeks on end.”
Rolling my eyes, I followed him into the kitchen. “Can you not lecture me right now?”
He threw me a look over his shoulder but refrained from answering. He slid onto one of the stools at the counter and dug into a plate of food. He was staying for dinner?
I stepped closer to the plate next to his, my stomach gurgling in hungry protest at the sight of the steamed salmon, baby potatoes, and mound of salad. Food. Real food.
“You cooked?” I asked as I gingerly got onto the stool next to him. My body was so stiff that the aches and pains distracted me from how close we sat together.
“You were sleeping when I got in with the groceries. I’d have to cook my own dinner anyway so . . .” He shrugged, not looking at me.
Confused by his contradictory nature, I studied him, curious. “Do you always look after your artists like this? So personally?”
“Only the ones who can’t look after themselves.”
And there he was. “I can look after myself.”
O’Dea grunted. “Oh aye, and a bang-up job you’ve been doing so far.” He pointed to my plate with his fork. “Start eating.”
“You are so bossy,” I grumbled but did as I was bid because I wanted to.
The food tasted so fresh, I couldn’t help a little moan of satisfaction.
“Good?” he asked, sounding amused.
I nodded and swallowed. “Everything I’ve had in the past year has been fried or processed. I used to be an incredibly healthy eater. I had to be. We toured a lot. You need strength and energy for that.”