And here I was.
Granted, I didn’t own much of anything, so packing and moving had been a breeze. In fact, I was almost embarrassed to have those movers see where I’d lived versus where I was moving to. I mean, come on. My apartment had rusted wrought-iron balconies and dumpsters in the parking lot while this place had nine freaking bedrooms, only one of which was occupied. Well, two now that I was here.
Yeah. Needless to say, I was out of my league on this one.
Not that I didn’t own nice things. A thirty-year-old man didn’t spend his life living in the lap of luxury with his rich parents and not accumulate nice things. However, I wasn’t a materialistic man, so most of my wealth was in the form of my wardrobe. Apparently, whoever continued to break into my apartment wasn’t a fan of Armani, Gucci, or Prada. Or perhaps I simply wasn’t their size.
Not that any of that mattered now. Trent had called twenty minutes ago to let me know he was on his way back from lunch and that I needed to be ready to get to work. Now that I lived on the premises, I really didn’t have any excuses as to why I couldn’t be here on time every single day.
Huh.
I wondered if that was why he’d done it. I originally thought it was because Trent feared for my safety, not that he was worried I wouldn’t show up when he needed me. But…
God, I hoped that wasn’t the reason. Considering I’d been diligently arriving for three years, surely he wasn’t rearranging his entire life because of the past couple of weeks.
I headed for the kitchen when my watch vibrated, signaling a motion sensor outside. A few seconds later, I heard the door from the garage open, the security alarm chime, and then Trent strolled into the kitchen. I stopped at the breakfast bar, glanced at the blank iPad in front of me, then up to him.
“I passed a moving truck on my way in. I take that as a good sign,” he said as he went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of the expensive water he kept on hand. “You get moved?” he asked with that expectant gleam in his eyes.
“I did, yes.”
Without so much as a nod, Trent walked right through the kitchen and out the other side.
I glanced down at myself. Compared to him, I looked like a bum. It didn’t matter that I was wearing a polo and a pair of jeans—both designer labels, of course. The man didn’t have a dress code for me, which I was grateful for. As it was, I’d purchased a few suits over the years, simply so I’d have something to wear on those rare occasions I was seen at an event with him. For the most part, I dressed for comfort while Trent always dressed to impress.
Still, when I saw the way he rocked those expensive suits, I felt as though I’d found my clothes on the side of the road.
“Troy!”
Shit.
I grabbed the iPad and headed his way.
“Pull up my calendar,” he instructed as he took a seat behind his desk, his eyes instantly locking on his laptop screen.
At least I was already one step ahead of him there. “You have dinner scheduled tomorrow night with—”
“Cancel it,” he stated.
I quirked one brow and stared at him. “It’s with Michael Bay.”
Trent’s eyes lifted to my face, his expression something along the lines of So? “Call Mike and tell him I can’t make it. Reschedule.”
I sighed. This was the part of my job I hated most. Although it wasn’t an infrequent occurrence, having to call people to tell them Trent was cancelling a meeting irked me for some reason. Not that I didn’t take calls from assistants all the time doing the same thing. It happened. The Hollywood elite were busy. I got that.
I quickly pulled out my iPhone and dialed Mr. Bay’s assistant. Once I relayed the information and identified a good time—at the end of October since Mr. Bay was extremely busy—we disconnected. I updated the calendar.
“What else is on the calendar?” Trent asked, staring at his laptop screen.
“Wednesday morning—”
“Cancel it,” he said before I could finish.
I wasn’t even going to argue that he was scheduled to be in Austin so he could have brunch with Matthew McConaughey. They were to discuss the possibility of Trent directing one of Mr. McConaughey’s upcoming films. Clearly it didn’t matter.
As I started to dial the phone, Trent spoke. “Tell him I’ll check back in with him in a couple of weeks. He’ll understand.”
“Of course.” I dialed the phone, relayed the message to Mr. McConaughey directly, and cleared the meeting from the calendar before disconnecting. “Mr. McConaughey said to tell you you’re a douche and next time he sees you, you’re buying drinks.”
