by Meghan Quinn
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.
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 c
an 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?”
“Take a breath, Paisley. You’re not prying. I have some time this morning before I have to be anywhere. We can talk swimming if you would like.”
“No, that’s okay.” I stuff a giant piece of French toast in my mouth, chewing quickly so I can finish my meal. Talking with my mouth full, I say, “Just want to know about the tickets.”
He gives me a quizzical look before answering. “I will make sure there are tickets for you and Bellini.”
“Oh, I don’t need a ticket if you can’t get one.” I shove an entire egg in my mouth, feeling the yolk drip down my chin. Quickly, like a ninja, I dab my chin with my napkin, praying he didn’t see the mess. A massacred pile of French toast, eggs, and bacon float around in my mouth, threatening to overspill at any minute.
“Are you okay?”
I shove one last piece of bacon into my already full trap, praying the maximum capacity doesn’t rebel on me and explode right in front of Reese.
“Fine,” I reply, covering my mouth with my napkin just in case something falls out. “All good over here.” I give him the thumbs up and pat my stomach. “Delicious.”
From the pace my teeth are working at, you’d think steam is coming out of my ears, but thankfully it doesn’t when I swallow and wash everything down with my drink. Once my mouth is clear, I smile at Reese who is studying me intently.
“All done.” I feel the need to open my mouth and lift my arms in the air to show him all food has been consumed, as if I was on a reality show where eating food was the contest.
“Did you even taste it?”
I snort.
Yes, you read that correctly. I snort.
I’m not a snorter. I laugh, I chuckle, I giggle even. I don’t ever snort.
Snorting is a violent way to force air out of our nose, a human reaction that happens usually uncontrollably when you are nervous and in need for relief somewhere in your face.
So you snort.
Needing to check my nose to make sure during my vicious exhalation of air out of my nose, I didn’t accidentally lose any mucus, I casually—like a professional—run my finger under my nose in the most offhand, yet smoothest way possible.
“You didn’t shoot anything out of your nose if that’s what you’re checking for,” Reese says, leaning back in his chair, observing me.
Immediately, heat flushes my cheeks, sweat forms over my upper lip—I can feel my ears turn red from embarrassment—and all I want to do is crawl into a hole from complete mortification.
“I uh, had an itch.” I make a point to use the tip of my finger to itch my nose, rather vigorously. “Funny how skin itches, huh?”
Funny how skin itches?
Someone please come punch me in the face and end this miserable moment.
Reese leans forward and crosses his arms on the table, turning up the heat in my body to lava levels, melting me right in my seat. He points under his nose and says, “Oh, I guess you did shoot something out when you snorted.”
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, bringing my napkin to my nose, completely and utterly humiliated.
Clapping his hands together, Reese laughs and says, “Just kidding, but damn was your reaction priceless.”
What?
He was just kidding?
Irritated, embarrassed, and wanting revenge, I lean toward him and without an ounce of thought or concern for repercussions, I flick him between the eyes. As if my digit is a bullet out of a gun, a high-powered flick makes an impression in his forehead, causing both of his eyes to shut out of reaction.
Holy crap!
The minute my fingernail connects with his skull, I realize I made a big mistake. I’m not making good decisions today.
He’s shocked.
I’m shocked.
My finger is shocked out of its own betrayal.
Silence stretches between us. No words are spoken, just two humans who barely know each other, staring at one another, one flick of a finger straining the tension that settles in the air.
What the hell do I do?
Flick myself between the eyes as well, laugh like a lunatic, and then tell him I forgot to take my meds this morning?
Maybe play it off as if there was a bug on his face and I was doing him a favor?
Salute him, grab my purse, and run like hell?
Take in the chair next to me, smack him in the face with it, knocking him just hard enough that he will forget this entire morning, then tell him a story about how he fell on the pool deck earlier and that’s why he’s in the hospital with a concussion, unable to compete anymore?
Stealing the man’s last chance at the Olympics, or saving my image?
I weigh both options in my head, truly considering the chair idea when Reese clears his throat. “Did you just . . . flick me between the eyes?”
Fuck.
A small part of me wishes he imagined the whole thing, but I’m just not that lucky, never have been.
My hands twist in my lap, my armpits are soaking up every last drop of anti-perspirant I coated them with this morning. I know I have to answer him, but I don’t know what to say. Just say something, anything to cut the tension that continues to build between us.
I bite the corner of my lip and giggle – an obnoxious giggle I don’t even like. “Oh, do you not like to be flicked in the head?” I grab my notepad and pen, quickly writing a note in it while talking out loud. “Note to self, Reese King doesn’t like to be flicked in the head, but does enjoy banana granola pancakes.” I shut the notepad and tap it a couple of times. “Noted. Won’t happen again.”
I smile, but I know it’s more of a nervous one—the corners of my lips turn down, almost like I am a horse trying to show off my gums. It’s unattractive; I can feel how unattractive it is.
“Well, now we got that settled, I think I’m going to take off. Thanks for breakfast.” I tap his hand but quickly retreat when he stares at our connection. “Text me!” I stand up casually, but then realize what I said. “Or not, I mean, don’t text me just to talk, text me if you need anything.” That sounded a little asshole-ish. “I mean if you want to shoot the shit, feel free to text me, or call . . .” I shake my head. “I mean, don’t call, only if you need something. I’m not good at chatting on the phone. I hate awkward silences. Okay, this is mortifying. Don’t fire me.”
I take off, bumping into the table directly behind me.
“Oops,” I call over my shoulder. “Look out for incoming place settings. See ya.”
From behind me, I can hear him mumble, “Did she really just flick me?”
Working my way through the restaurant, I ignore the blaze of mortification rushing up my spine. Never in my life have I ever flicked someone between the eyes. Why did my first time have to be with Olympic heart-throb, Reese King?
***
Reese: Please be sure to stop by the store before you see Bellini today and take her some flowers on my behalf. Tell her I’m sorry. I will be sure to reimburse you. Thanks.
I stare at the message a few more minutes before I walk into Bellini’s house. Did I say house? Oh, I mean obnoxiously sized mansion.
I received the message moments after I left the restaurant. At first, I thought Reese was texting me to have a laugh over the flick to the forehead, but who am I kidding? I dug my grave, and he is probably ready and willing to fill it in for me.
Instead, I went to the florist, picked up some flowers, wrote in the stupid little card for Reese, and stuck it in the middle of the bouquet. This is what assistants to celebrities do, they buy flowers for their significant others and make rich-people apologies. I can’t be more thrilled.
Sense the sarcasm.
Before I enter the house, I text Reese to let him know I bought the flowers, and even though I flicked him in the forehead, I’m still really good at following directions.
Paisley: Flowers are in hand, the ‘I’m sorry’ card has been written. Let me know if you need anything else.
I debate over apologizing one more time for my jackhammer finger but decide not to harp on it. The only way to forget what transpired at the breakfast table while sharing a side of bacon is to not speak of it . . . ever again. I actually plan on taking a bottle of bleach to my brain when I get home, to erase any kind of memory of the situation.
The driveway to Bellini’s house is elaborate with shrubbery lining the road, twirling up toward the sky like corkscrews. In front of the house is a grand three-tiered water fountain, raining down water, creating a harmonious atmosphere for visitors.
The exterior of the house is beige with sand-colored bricks and adobe-covered walls. Pillars grace the entryway and balconies extend across the second floor with touches of wrought iron spanning across the façade, giving the home almost a Santa Fe feel.
It is magnificent. A dream house, no doubt about that.
When I arrive at the front door, flowers in hand, I’m not sure if I should knock or just walk in. I’m pretty sure Bellini won’t be answering the door herself, but I also don’t want to walk in on her doing something ridiculous, like pulling an Alicia Silverstone, chewing up food and feeding her dog like a mama bird. I wouldn’t put it past her.
So I knock.
Within seconds, a man in a butler’s suit, hand towel over his forearm, and white gloves covering his hands, opens the door.
Dear Lord.
I push back the eye-rolling from Bellini’s need to show off her money and give the man my best smile. “Hello, I’m Paisley Maccaro, Miss Chambers’s new assistant.”
