STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) (7 page)

“I was thinking about the French toast, eggs sunny side up, and a side of bacon myself,” Paisley says. “What about you, Reese?”

Her pink lips glisten under the lights of the restaurant as she smiles over at me. Fuck, the woman eats, and it’s a huge turn on to me.

“Oh Mauve, aren’t you worried about calorie intake?”

“No.” Paisley shakes her head. “Had a big lift this morning at the gym, I’m starving.”

Bellini’s nose turns up at Paisley mentioning lifting weights. By no means is Paisley a ’roid-raging specimen, but she is toned, sculpted perfectly, an impeccable product of the gym. Her shoulders are chiseled, but still feminine; her face is round, but thin, and from what I can remember, her ass is a symmetrical masterpiece.

“The French toast is good, but the banana granola wheat pancakes are my favorite.”

Paisley opens her mouth to say something but Bellini cuts her off. “Ugh, all this carb talk is making me fat from just hearing it.” She snaps her finger in the air, calling over the waitress who appears out of thin air. “I’m going to have a quarter of a bran muffin, only a quarter, do not give me any more than that, with precisely a third of a cup of grape jelly on the side. I would also like one leaf of romaine lettuce with three strawberries cut into roses in the middle, pineapple, and blueberries decorating the side. As for my drink, I would appreciate it if you could run across the street and grab me a venti, seven-cubed, iced, skinny, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, no-whip hazelnut macchiato and two orange Tic Tacs. Also, a glass of distilled water, three tablespoons of orange juice, and a shot of wheat grass with a dash of pepper.” She sets her menu down and points at both Paisley and myself. “These two will be gorging themselves on glutinous products that I’m sure will give me hives.”

Without regret or remorse, Paisley orders her French toast, and I get my pancakes. We both order sunny side up eggs and decide to share a side of bacon.

While our orders are processed, I open up my phone to my calendar app to go over some of the most important upcoming dates of my career. Paisley pulls out a pad of paper, a black sparrow gracing the front. In the spiral, there is purple felt tip pen tucked inside. With her teeth, she uncaps it, her beautiful lips, barely caressing the cap. My mouth waters from the sight, and I wonder what it would feel like to have her mouth around me, those lips sucking me off, her grey eyes staring up at me, as if I were the only man in the world good enough for her.

Shaking the dirty thoughts from my mind, I start to discuss my schedule. “Trials are June 26
th
to July 4
th
.”

“Noooo,” Bellini whines. “How un-American. It interferes with this country’s birthday. What kind of treasonous nonsense is this? Who came up with those dates? Did Hitler rise from hell, become an event planner, and screw over all of us red, white, and blue-blooded Americans just for his own sadistic pleasure?”

“You don’t have to go,” I say between clenched teeth, inches from flicking a sugar packet at her forehead.

“Are you kidding me? Of course I’m going to go. I would never miss my boyfriend’s swim party.”

“Bellini, it’s not a swim party. It’s the Olympic Trials. You know what that means, right? If I place at the Trials, I go to the Games. The Olympic Trials are one of the single most important events of my career besides the actual games.”

She waves her hand in front of her face. “Oh sure, yup.” She doesn’t even look at me as she speaks; instead, she taps away on her phone. So instead of trying to gain her attention, I turn to Paisley who is jotting down notes.

“Are you going to need a flight?” she asks.

She looks up at me and that’s when I realize she put on a pair of glasses, black, thick-rimmed glasses. Framed by the onyx lining, her steel-colored eyes look that much more exotic.

Ignoring the urge to lean in and kiss her from how adorable she looks, I say, “I already have my travel accommodations, but I’m sure you and Bellini will need to book something. Production should be willing to cover the expenses; you should see who you can talk to about that. Bellini has an entourage I’m sure she will need there.”

“Pocket has to go and so does Melon. I refuse to be seen on camera if I am forced to do my own hair and makeup,” Bellini cuts in.

“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 17
th
to 24
th
, which then extends into the International Training Camp from the 24
th
to August 1
st
. Then the Olympics in Rio de Janeiro. Opening ceremonies are August 5
th
.”

“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.”

**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.

But there is a difference between the way he looks at me and the way he looks at her.

“Want to try some of my pancakes?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts and shifting his plate toward mine. “They lack in the sugar department since I try to avoid the substance as much as possible. I’ve found it much easier on my body to recover when I’m not loading it down with sugar. But they are still really good pancakes.”

“Sure,” I respond, shrugging my shoulders and sweating just slightly from the recent camaraderie between us.

With my fork, I cut a triangle of pancake off his plate, douse it in some sugar-free syrup, and place the bite in my mouth. Flavors of banana and syrup flood my mouth.

“These are so good,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand so he doesn’t see the half mutilated food rolling around.

“Told you.” He winks, right before reaching over to my plate and taking his own bite without permission.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

Mid cut into my breakfast, his face rings shock. “What? I don’t get to try yours? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“You should ask before you go and reach over to grab a hungry girl’s food. I wasn’t kidding when I said I like to eat.”

“Apparently.” He laughs. His face turns sincere, and he relaxes his arm on the table, waiting for me to give him permission. “Paisley, may I please have a bite of your French toast? It will only be a little one.”

“Because you asked politely.” I gesture for him to take a bite.

What I think is going to be a little corner of my French toast, turns into a huge square, and before I can protest, the bite is quickly eaten by the man sitting next to me.

His smile is broad; he knows what he’s done.

“That was not a small bite,” I protest.

Talking with his mouth full, clearly not concerned about food flying out of his mouth, he says, “I will get you another plate if you’re still hungry after you finish that one.”

I point my fork at him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Believe me, if you want more food, I will order you more food.” There is a twinkle in his eye, a little spark I haven’t seen before.

I don’t reply. Instead, I stare down at my plate and will my breath to steady in its erratic behavior. I’ve never felt so nervous around a man before in my entire life. So, why now? Why does it have to be this man, one that I work for, one who is attached to a woman who could literally make or break the tiny thread that is my career?

Casual conversation, that’s what we need. Simple questions that will get me through the rest of this breakfast without shedding my clothes and begging Reese King to lick my nipples to hardened points.

Nope, I’m not having inappropriate thoughts at all. Not one bit. I don’t want to hump his arm one bit.

“Um, are you excited about the Olympics?” I ask, rather shyly, hating the long bout of silence between us and my idiotic question, but it seems pretty safe.

He chuckles and pats his mouth with his napkin. “Yeah. I have to get there first.”

I nod my head, mind blank of what else to say. “Do you have more practice after this?”

“I do. I have another session in the pool and then some dryland training. Pilates and weight lifting.”

“You do Pilates?” I ask, laughing from just thinking about him on a reformer.

“Have to.” He sets his napkin on the table, and I notice he’s finished his entire breakfast. Christ, he can eat. “A strong core is important when it comes to swimming.”

“Don’t you ever get tired? I get tired just after one workout.”

He shrugs and stares out at the ocean to the side of us. “It’s second nature now. I don’t even think about it. This morning was a little rough, the main set was strenuous, but I’m at the peak of my mesocycle right now. Taper week is coming up, that’s when I’ll be the happiest.”

“Taper week?” He looks at his phone, checking the time, and I realize maybe I should stop asking him questions, finish my meal, and let him get on with his day. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. You can go if you need to be somewhere.” I grab my pen and tear a piece of paper out of my notebook. “Here is my email address, and you have my phone number. Send me your schedule, and I’ll make sure to sync it up with mine and Bellini’s. I will work on those accommodations and travel arrangements. I only wonder about tickets, would we be able to get into the venue?”