his photos. In pretty much all the photos I’d seen of him online, he was smiling. Even the ones where he wasn’t smiling, his eyes were smiling.
He wasn’t smiling now, with any part of him.
“So, your sister asked me if I would meet with you, to chat a little bit about how an assistant might be of use to you. She explained this to you, I guess?”
“She did.”
“Great. Well, I’ve been an executive assistant for ten years.” God, had it been that long? “I’ve worked in many different environments, different industries, for all types of employers, so hopefully I can help with this. I haven’t worked in the music industry, but—”
“Does that say ‘Gimme Shelter’?”
He’d interrupted me so suddenly, it took me a moment to process. I lifted my right arm a little, showing my tattoo. The one he was now staring at. “Yes. It does.”
He met my eyes again. I waited, but he didn’t say anything else.
I put my arm down.
“So… I thought maybe you could tell me a bit about your workday,” I said. “Since I’m not totally familiar with what you do.”
He said nothing.
“Uh, from what I understand, you have a home studio here that you work out of?”
“Yes.”
“And you produce albums for other artists from here?”
“Yes.”
“So, is most of your day spent working on the actual music? Or is there much paperwork involved? Do you have virtual meetings, conference calls, that kind of thing?”
“Yes.”
Holy God. They were men of few words… and then there was this man.
“How much of your time would you say is spent doing redundant administrative tasks, like answering phone calls and emails and filling out paperwork?”
“I don’t answer phone calls. I rarely answer emails. Paperwork… usually goes to my accountant or the lawyers or whoever.”
“Would you like someone to answer the phone for you? Answer your emails?”
“The people on the other end of the phone calls and emails might appreciate it.”
Hmm. Clever.
He still didn’t smile, though.
“Would it be helpful to you to have someone handle your personal errands?” I asked him. “Groceries, dry cleaning, post office…?”
“My housekeeper gets the groceries. I don’t need dry cleaning. And the staff over at my recording studio handle any shipping and mail.”
“Right.” I knew he owned a recording studio over in Mount Pleasant. Danica told me, even before Courteney mentioned it; she was doing some interior decorating there this week, getting things comfy for the Players as they settled in. “Little Black Hole,” I said, remembering the name of the studio.
He said nothing. I supposed there wasn’t really a question in that, though. And he hardly seemed like the type to carry a conversation, so apparently this was all on me.
Courteney hadn’t mentioned that he had a housekeeper, but it was reassuring to hear it, somehow. Presumably that meant he saw another human being on some sort of regular basis, even if he never left the house.
“How about scheduling?” I asked him. “Time management? Would it help you to have someone keeping you organized, on task, on deadline, anything like that?”
“I’ve never had that before. And things manage to get done.”
“When you think about having an assistant work with you, what do you picture?”
“I have no idea.”
I considered that. I was pretty used to employers who knew exactly what they wanted out of an assistant. Usually, someone they could give orders to all day, who’d do whatever they needed at any moment of the day—or night. But this man didn’t seem to have any preconceived ideas, or even any desire, particularly, to have an assistant at his beck and call.
At least, he wasn’t expressing any desire as we sat here talking.
“Can you hear the buzzer on your front gate,” I asked him, curious, “when you’re working in the studio?”
“The buzzer goes to my phone.”
Right. The phone he never answered.
“How about the doorbell?”
“The studio is soundproofed.”
Interesting. I wondered if he had any plan of meeting with me at all. Or if he’d forgotten about our meeting.
If I didn’t sneak that note in to him with his cat… would he have completely blown this meeting off?
I studied him as he studied me. He was so… still. Totally silent. I could see his chest move a little, like he was taking slow, deep breaths. But he didn’t even blink for a long moment.
Was he a ghost or something? Because that would explain a lot.
“So… right now you’re working on the Players’ album, right?
“Yes.”
“Are you working on anything else?”
“No.”
“Do you ever work on more than one project at a time?”