Page 29 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Your secret is safe with me. But why portray yourself as a different person?”
I look out at the ocean and consider her question. I’m not a dick in real life, but that’s not how I’m portrayed in the media. Fuck if I care, though.
“I don’t portray myself as anyone else but me. The general population knows me as Reese, the Olympic swimmer, they know of me as the guy who shaves his beard right before I dip myself in the pool, as the man who is laser focused on the pool deck to the point I don’t show much emotion. The media plays up rivalries and shortcomings that irritate me, so during interviews, I only want them to be over. You only see what the media shows. They don’t see me going to hospitals to talk to sick patients. They don’t see me at swim camps for kids with disabilities or hanging out with wounded war veterans. They see me as Reese King, The Silver Stroke, the short-tempered man who can accomplish everything except earning a gold medal.”
There is sorrow in Paisley’s voice when she asks, “Is that why you’re doing the reality show, to show a different image of yourself?”
Quietly, I say, “Yeah something like that.” Knowing full well the reality show is a load of crock I signed up for out of pure desperation during a low point in my career, when I was panicking about life after I hung up my goggles and swim cap.
Seconds span between us before Paisley grips my hand resting in the sand and says, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think of you as The Silver Stroke or Reese the swimmer.”
Connecting our eyes, I ask, “Yeah, how do you see me?”
She bites her bottom lip, contemplating her answer. A smile spreads across her face before answering in a teasing tone, “Reese the underwear model, of course.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Oh, how could I forget? How fortunate for me.”
“You know I’m kidding.” She nudges me. “You’re way more than that, and I’m so happy I get to work with you. You’re an awesome guy, Reese.”
“An awesome guy, huh?” I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Why does that seem like something a middle school girl would tell her crush?”
Slyly, she says, “Maybe because you were a middle school crush to a little black-haired girl.”
Fuck, yes!
“Have someTeen Bopcut-outs of me?”
From the shift in her body, I can tell she’s feeling uncomfortable from her confession and my teasing. Clearing her throat, she says, “Uh, it’s hot, I think I’m going to head back. I’m also hungry for lunch.”
She sits up next to me and grabs her bag. She snags a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses and puts them on. She looks like a goddamn pin-up girl.
I can’t take my eyes off her and panic sets in. I don’t want her to leave, so I do something completely unexpected. “Come back to my place for lunch.”
If sunglasses weren’t covering her eyes, I know they would be speaking a thousand words just from the small drop in her jaw and the rise in her brow. I don’t know what possessed me to ask her back to my place, besides the fact that I’m infatuated with the woman who is also my assistant and my fake girlfriend’s assistant.
I’m so fucked.
“I don’t know,” she says, clearly uncomfortable by my invite. “I have some, umm, tuna back at home calling my name.”
I scrunch my face at her and shake my head. Without thinking about the consequences, I stand up and reach out my hand to her. With a quick pull, I help her stand on her feet and try not to drool over the way her breasts bounce with her movements.
“You’re coming to have lunch with me. I’m having some healthy pasta salad and grilling out. You can wear your bikini too . . . if you want.” I wink at her and start walking toward my house. From behind, I can hear her gathering her things to follow me.
I sigh in relief. I need more fucking time with her.
“Hold up,” she calls out.
Halting in my tracks, I turn to see her unsteadily walking through the sand, her arms full of her beach gear. Like the gentleman I am, I grab her bag for her and link her arm with mine. The shocked look on her face is adorable, so fucking adorable that all I want to do is push her back up against the sand and ravage that sweet mouth of hers.
But I have time to make that happen.
***
“Your place is amazing,” Paisley coos, now wearing a white crochet cover-up, if that’s what you want to call it. To me, it’s a fucking tease because it barely skims the tops of her thighs. There are slits on either side that go up to her waistline and the holes in the crochet netting are big enough that I can still see her entire body. The sleeves just fall past her elbows, pulling tightly on her toned arms. All the cover-up does is make her that much more enticing.
Now that we’re inside and the sun isn’t reflecting off her skin, I can’t help but continue to stare at her while she observes my house. Gracefully she glides across the floors, her hips swaying with every movement, whispers of her hair blowing in the light breeze coming through my open sliding glass doors that lead to a private pool.
Although she has an athletic build, it doesn’t hide her feminine curves.
