Page 11 of Stroked Long
I shrug. “Never had a girlfriend, don’t plan on ever having one.”
Why did I just say that? I squeeze my eyes shut from my confession as my hand rubs across my forehead.Enough, Bodi.
“That was Eva.”
“Oh, I adore your sister. She’s amazing, such a beautiful and talented artist.”
“She is.” I clear my throat, feeling uncomfortable and feeling a loss of momentum in the meeting. I search my notes. “Where were we?”
“You wanted to go over goals.” Without skipping a beat, Ruby falls right back into her professional role, guiding me ever so slightly through this meeting.Thank fuck.
In her notebook, she takes down our top five goals and structures them to show our top priorities and each step to make them happen. It’s helpful and puts me at ease. She relaxes me so much that while she’s writing something down, I reach up to the cookie in front of me and break off a little piece. Her eyes lift from her paper and watch me place the cookie in my mouth. The corner of her mouth lifts as her long lashes flutter over those bright brown eyes in amazement.
I quirk my lip. “I didn’t want to be rude.”
She winks. “Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell your coach.”
I just nod, not taking another bite despite how good it tastes. I don’t detour from my diet . . . ever, so I don’t plan on finishing the cookie in front of me. I feel out of sorts from the little bite I had.
“I think we have a good plan set up. Don’t you think?” She sits back in her chair right after she breaks off more of my cookie and plops it in her mouth.
“Yes. The gala is a good place to start, not only to raise money but to raise awareness.”
“Agreed.” She looks me up and down and crosses her arms over her chest; there is wonderment in her eyes and I can feel she’s about to ask something personal. “Are you excited about the Olympics?”
“Yes.” That’s all I say. I’m excited, end of story. Not much more to talk about.
“It’s obvious in the way you elaborate,” she teases.
“Not much of a talker.”
“I sensed that.”
She’s about to ask me another question but I cut her off. “Um, it’s late, you should probably go.”
She stammers for a second, sitting back in her seat from my abrupt end to the night. “Oh, I’m sorry.”Shit. A quick intake of breath. I’ve offended her. I think.
She quickly starts gathering her things.
I cringe, hating that I have no ability to censure what comes out of my mouth. Why am I such a dickhead?
“I didn’t mean it like that.” No eye contact again. My hands twist on my lap. “I just meant that it’s late, and you must be tired.”
“No worries.” She brushes me off. When she stands from the table and packs her things in her bag, I stand as well, trying to think of something else to say. It wasn’t the best night, but it wasn’t my worst, so I’m upset at myself for not being able to end it properly.
“Can I help you?” I ask, looking at her empty place at the table.
“I got it, thanks though.” Rushing, she places her bag over her shoulder and carries her tub of cookies toward the door.
She reaches for the handle, but I stop her by placing my hand on the door. My heart is beating a mile a minute as I try to figure out how to bring that smile back on her face. She’s been so nice to me this entire time, and then I practically tell her to get the fuck out of my house.
I fucking hate everything about me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s cool, Bodi. Like I said, no worries.”
My eyes are cast at the ground, so I can’t tell if she’s serious or not. I’m too afraid to look her in the eyes so instead, I unlock the door and pull it open while stepping to the side.
