Fuck, his head was pounding.
Anton stepped out of the shower and searched blindly for a towel. He'd not bothered with the lights as they just made his head pound worse.
Really, he needed to find a proper cure for a hangover. Or possibly to drink less. Still, the party had droned on and on and he'd been bored out of his mind. At the time, the pounding of his skull had seemed like a small price to pay for drinking himself into a stupor.
He dried off, shaved blindly, and pulled his hair back into as tight a tail as he could stand, wrapping a silver clasp around it. Silk underwear felt good against his skin, smooth and easy, his dress slacks topped with a turtleneck sweater. Just because he felt like hell, didn't mean he needed to look like it.
Anton ventured out of his room, frowning as the pounding in his head doubled when he stepped into the hall. The marble tile was cool under his bare feet--it felt good actually, but he should have put on socks, shoes, like a civilized person.
God fucking damn it, he wished the pounding in his head would stop.
It did, only to start up again a moment later and if he hadn't worried about how much it would hurt, Anton would have shaken his head. Someone was knocking on the front door. He wondered where Jackson had fucked off to, that the man couldn't answer the door, as he went to do it himself.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, blinking at the man standing in the hallway.
"Last time I checked, I was Greg. Anna sent me. Said you needed a new chef." The brightest, sharpest blue eyes he'd ever seen stared out from under dark hair with bleached tips.
"You're a cook?" This guy didn't look like any chef he'd ever seen.
"Yep. Anna said she sent my resume." Ink, goatee, pierced ear--this was a rock star.
He imagined Jackson had indeed seen the resume. He also imagined there hadn't been a picture attached. He stared at the tattoo, the red heart, blue bird and sexy sailor almost ... old-fashioned. The little diamond in the man's ear twinkled at him.
"Well I guess you'd better come in then." He stepped away from the door.
"Thanks, dude. You the boss?"
"I am." And he'd have been calling for Jackson to get his ass out here and do his job, except Anton had a feeling any attempt at raising his voice would find the top of his head exploding. "Are you a good cook?" he asked, leading the way past the elegant decor and expensive furniture to the large, bright--Jesus Christ it was bright--kitchen.
"Nope. I'm a fucking exceptional cook. Nice set up." The guy--Greg was it?--looked around, opening drawers and cabinets and the refrigerator.