“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.”
“Paisley?” the man repeats. “I don’t believe I have anyone by the name of Paisley on the list.”
I grit my teeth and say, “What about a Mauve?”
“Ah yes, Miss Chambers is expecting you. She’s in the back on the patio. I will show you the way.”
I nod and follow the man through Bellini’s house, taking in the expensive art, wallpaper, and décor that grace the walls. Her style is tacky, exuberant, and abhorrent. Horse heads, gold damask wallpaper, and Jesus Christ candles are scattered around the house, sending mixed signals of their decorating direction. Are they going for a sanctuary for nuns or reliving an episode from
The Godfather
? It’s a hodgepodge of extravagant and over-priced crap no one needs in their house unless they are trying to prove something.
We get it, Bellini, you have money. Too bad money can’t buy the she-beast a heart.
I still have no clue what Reese sees in her.
As I draw closer to the back patio, passing a collection of gold-encrusted boar heads on the wall, I can hear Bellini chatting it up about the stylist she has coming over later today to go over her wardrobe for the summer.
“Miss Chambers, Mauve is here to see you.”
Bellini’s back is to me, a wide black sunhat gracing her head and a silk robe falling over her shoulders. She turns to face me, sunglasses covering her eyes entirely too big for her face. “It’s about time. What are those weeds in your hand? Are those for me?”
“Yes, they are from Reese. He wanted to apologize about breakfast.”
For the record, they are not weeds. They are one dozen white calla lilies, wrapped in lavender tissue paper and cinched together with a deep-purple velvet bow. I spent a pretty penny on the damn things, she better damn well appreciate them.
In a dramatic fashion, Bellini takes off her sunglasses and brings her hands to her heart. “Oh my gosh, he got me flowers. And here I thought he wanted to break up with me.”
“Never,” the girl on the right of Bellini says. Her red hair shines in the sunlight, framing her freckle-speckled face and beautiful brown eyes.
The flowers are ripped out of my hand by Bellini and shoved into her face where she takes a deep breath. “Don’t you just love the smell of fresh-cut flowers?”
“They must smell extra special because they are sent from your Olympic-star boyfriend,” the girl to the side coos.
Bellini pauses mid sniff and scowls at the girl next to her. “Pocket . . .”
Ahh, that’s Pocket. Poor, poor girl.
“Would you please take your head out of my ass? Despite your ginger qualities, brown doesn’t suit your face very well, so lay off the ass kissing.”
“I’m sorry, Bellini, I was just trying—”
“That’s your problem,” Bellini says. “You’re trying too much. Your desperate attempts to make me like you are pitiful and uncomplementary to your five-dollar haircut you get every month at Fantastic Sam’s. Now make yourself useful and take care of these flowers for me. I need to meet with Mauve.”
“Anything for you, Bellini.” Pocket pops up and takes the flowers. I feel bad for the poor girl. At least I am getting paid to put up with Bellini’s crap. Is Pocket getting anything in exchange?
“Sit,” she says, pointing at the white upholstered chair sitting across from her.
From behind, it seems like Bellini is only wearing a robe, but once I round her lounge, I notice the black bathing suit she’s sporting under the robe. It is plain, but cut dramatically low in the front, showing off a great portion of her skin. I am sort of surprised by her choice in bathing suit, given she owns a sweater set in every color and claims to be a distant relative to the Virgin Mary.
“Jasper Maddox is going to be here soon to talk about upcoming filming we have in the schedule. In case you didn’t know how a reality show works, they plan out ahead of time what they are going to film. The crew knows if they want to be in this house filming, they have to schedule it with me first. That’s your job. Make sure to match our schedules with Jasper. I refuse to be caught off guard when cameras are around.”
“Understood,” I answer, knowing full well how reality shows work, but I wasn’t about to point that out to her. Instead, I pull out my notebook and start taking notes on everything she’s saying, even the ridiculous things. I can’t forget one minor detail, even if it was the smallest of tasks. I know if I have one screw up with Bellini, she will make sure I won’t be working for her anymore. She doesn’t seem very forgiving.
“But before Jasper gets here, I need to talk to you about something.” Bellini crosses her legs and fans out her robe as she stares me down. “You understand you work for me, correct?”
“Of course,” I answer, wondering where this conversation is going.
“And you understand that you work for Reese as well?”