Page 17 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“I will check into that.” Paisley writes down some more notes.
“As for the rest of the season, assuming I will make it past Trials—”
“You will.” Placing her hand on my arm, Paisley calms my already raging nerves. Warmth sears through me, running wickedly through my veins, settling my racing heart, and amping up my libido. I glance down at her small hand, holding a pen between her fingers, while caressing my arm. It’s a sweet, and kind gesture, one I’m sure she is offering as a friend, an employee, but I want it to be so much fucking more.
“Thanks.” I cough, clearing my throat. “After that, there is training camp in San Antonio, July 17thto 24th, which then extends into the International Training Camp from the 24thto August 1st. Then the Olympics in Rio de Janeiro. Opening ceremonies are August 5th.”
“Wait.” Bellini holds up her hand. “You’re going to be gone that entire time? How the hell am I supposed to shoot this reality show with you at your little summer camps?”
Fed up with her disrespect toward my sport, I say, “You can either go, or you can sit on your ass at home, petting your dog’s hair, and watch reruns of your dad getting humped repeatedly by a pig.”
She shoots up out of her chair and grips the edges of the table, as if she’s about to Hulk-style flip it over. “How dare you speak of my father that way? It wasn’t his fault that Billy Jo Inbred wasn’t conducting his job properly and keeping the horny bacon slices away from my father.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and raises her chin. “I don’t need to sit here and listen to you disgrace my family. When you want to apologize, you know where I will be. Mauve, for Christ’s sake, make sure your hair is brushed when I see you later today. I refuse to be seen with an ill-informed hipster making a poor attempt on dreadlocks.”
The waitress walks up just in time with Bellini’s drink for her departure. Without thanking the woman, Bellini grabs it from her hand, takes one sip of it and then scowls. “Did you spit in this? It has a distinct flavor of human saliva.” The waitress shakes her head. “We will see about that. Where’s your manager?”
Stomping her three-inch heels one right in front of the other, her sweater set flaps in the breeze as she retreats to the back of the restaurant.
Relieved, I take a deep breath and lean back in my chair. Christ, that woman is going to be the death of me. Right about now, the sponsorships and deals the reality show will bring in don’t seem viable enough for me to stick around to deal with her bullshit. Too bad I already signed the contract. I just mentally pray Bellini isn’t going to fuck with my last chance at the gold.
“Um, should we continue?” Paisley asks, looking uncomfortable and running her fingers through her hair, clearly affected by Bellini’s comment.
Without thinking, I stop her hand from combing through her hair and hold it while I scan her features with affection. Her breath hitches in her throat, her tongue slowly licks her lips, and her eyes bore holes into my soul.
A side smile peeking past my lips, I say, “I don’t know about you, but I was looking forward to my pancakes. Eat breakfast with me.”
Gently, she retreats her hand away from mine and straightens the napkin on her lap while taking a deep breath.
Did she feel the same way I felt? The burning need to get to know each other, mentally and intimately? Did she feel the electricity starting to build between us as well? A spark so heavy, that if our lips connect, it will feel like the entire room will explode?
She glances up at me, her head tilted to the side. “I really am starving.”
“Good,” I say, leaning back again. “Remind me to tip that waitress heavily later on. She deserves it after dealing with Bellini’s crap.”
Chapter Six
**PAISLEY**
What the hell am I doing?
I am doing exactly what Jonathan told me not to do. I am slowly becoming attached, I am getting too close to Reese, and I’m dropping that professional façade I’m supposed to be wearing.
Hell, we just held hands.
HELD HANDS!
His thumb rubs across the top of my knuckles. Thank God I used lotion before coming here. He could have been faced with crocodile hands.
Shit, he keeps looking at me and not looking at me like a regular person looks at another regular person. No, his soulful hazel eyes speak volumes of what he wants to do with me. They search for approval, for validation in his profession, as if what I think of him actually matters.
His posture is relaxed, slouched in his chair, legs spread for a decent foundation, his knee occasionally bumping into mine under the table. His smile stretches naturally across his chiseled and scruffy face as he speaks of his workout routine and the swim practice he had this morning. His hair curls out from under the backwards baseball cap he’s wearing, giving him an almost boyish charm, but I know there is nothing boy about him.
Under those clothes, lies a six-foot-two man, wrapped in well-defined muscles and ink, a body sculpted to perfection by the smooth surface of water and many relentless hours in the weight room.
Everything about him exudes sex, from his bad boy image, to the tattoo running down his arm, to his confident swagger. His appearance is unforgiving and whenever he looks at me, his eyes are ravenous, hungry, ready to pounce.
And then there is Bellini. I am kind of shocked to see how Reese interacted with her, not really caring about her feelings. Their whole relationship is really odd, which makes me wonder, is that the kind of man Reese is? One who doesn’t seem to mind insulting his significant other?
It shouldn’t matter to me; I shouldn’t care what kind of boyfriend he is, or how he treats Bellini.
