Free STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) by Meghan Quinn Page A

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