Read Online In the Fast Lane (Fast Series Book 1) by Evie Anderson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Evie Anderson
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like she was disturbing her. She had no idea how to act toward people with real jobs.
“Of course! Come in, come in!” Allie got up from her desk and walked over to give Jessi a quick hug. “How are you doing? It’s been a while.”
Jessi immediately relaxed. Allie was a tall, sophisticated brunette with the ruthlessness necessary for the fast-paced job she performed. Sometimes she made Jessi nervous, but she always seemed to know how to make things comfortable.
“I’m good, Allie. How are you?”
“ I’m great, but I don’t know how you’re going to be when you hear what I’ve got to say.”
“Just give it to me.”
“Okay.” Allie whipped back over to her desk and pulled up her screen. “So far, you’ve got a few satellite interviews with the twenty-four hour news stations. When those are over, you’ve got a sit down face–to-face with Claudel Lemaitre at three o’clock.” She paused. “Is that going to be okay, Jessi?” she asked seriously.
“Absolutely! Claudel and I are good friends,” she replied.
Actually, he was an ex-boyfriend who had just the slightest little tendency to forget the “ex” part now and then. Claudel was also a former French swimmer and international playboy. He’d always been a player, and she hadn’t been interested in him at first—not after Dalton. But Claudel had worn her down. They’d had a fun relationship, broken up after college, and remained friends. Claudel liked to push the “friends” part.
Still, he was a good...ish guy. He’d put up his Speedo a few years ago and since then had been working here and there as an announcer and event promoter. He was good at it and made a nice living for himself. He was also markedly dispassionate about his career. As long as summering in the Alps and wintering in Monaco with a woman on his arm kept him from hitting on her, Jessi didn’t really care what he did.
Unfortunately, he’d shown up right in the middle of her personal crisis. If there was one thing she knew for sure, she was not in need of another ego-inflated swim-boy at the moment. Dalton McKinney was way more than enough for one woman to handle.
Chapter 9
“Who is the French fuck?” Dalton asked, coming to stand next to Sawyer in the observation room.
“Huh?” Sawyer looked up from the time sheets he was perusing. He looked bewildered to be suddenly sharing the room with someone. He came around quickly though, there being only one “French fuck” in the vicinity at the moment. “Oh, that’s Claudel Lemaitre.”
“The French kid?” Dalton had heard of him, but he had looked like a drowned rat the last time he had seen him—all awkward and lanky, his Speedo almost falling off of his skeleton of a frame. Of course, Claudel had probably been about sixteen or seventeen at the time and at his first international races, but still. It was a shock to see the kid all grown up... and sniffing around one of his swimmers.
“French kid, French fuck, call him what you want, but yes. That is Claudel Lemaitre, in the flesh,” Sawyer said and went back to his time sheets.
“What’s he doing getting all up on Jessi like that?” Dalton asked. He looked down at the pool deck and scowled. Lemaitre was finding little ways to touch Jessi, and by the look in his eyes, was thinking about how best to climb her frame. Practice had been over for a while now, and while the reporters had access to the swimmers for the next fifteen minutes, Dalton had an overwhelming urge to tell Lemaitre his time was up.
“Probably trying to get laid,” Sawyer replied nonchalantly, still not looking up from the time sheets.
“What?” Dalton felt the blood rising to his face. He was beginning to notice an irrational sense of anger he didn’t want to put a name to. The last thing he needed to do was get jealous over Jessi Pruitt. Not only would that be seriously ridiculous, but of all people, he certainly had no right to tell Jessi who she
“Of course! Come in, come in!” Allie got up from her desk and walked over to give Jessi a quick hug. “How are you doing? It’s been a while.”
Jessi immediately relaxed. Allie was a tall, sophisticated brunette with the ruthlessness necessary for the fast-paced job she performed. Sometimes she made Jessi nervous, but she always seemed to know how to make things comfortable.
“I’m good, Allie. How are you?”
“ I’m great, but I don’t know how you’re going to be when you hear what I’ve got to say.”
“Just give it to me.”
“Okay.” Allie whipped back over to her desk and pulled up her screen. “So far, you’ve got a few satellite interviews with the twenty-four hour news stations. When those are over, you’ve got a sit down face–to-face with Claudel Lemaitre at three o’clock.” She paused. “Is that going to be okay, Jessi?” she asked seriously.
“Absolutely! Claudel and I are good friends,” she replied.
Actually, he was an ex-boyfriend who had just the slightest little tendency to forget the “ex” part now and then. Claudel was also a former French swimmer and international playboy. He’d always been a player, and she hadn’t been interested in him at first—not after Dalton. But Claudel had worn her down. They’d had a fun relationship, broken up after college, and remained friends. Claudel liked to push the “friends” part.
Still, he was a good...ish guy. He’d put up his Speedo a few years ago and since then had been working here and there as an announcer and event promoter. He was good at it and made a nice living for himself. He was also markedly dispassionate about his career. As long as summering in the Alps and wintering in Monaco with a woman on his arm kept him from hitting on her, Jessi didn’t really care what he did.
Unfortunately, he’d shown up right in the middle of her personal crisis. If there was one thing she knew for sure, she was not in need of another ego-inflated swim-boy at the moment. Dalton McKinney was way more than enough for one woman to handle.
Chapter 9
“Who is the French fuck?” Dalton asked, coming to stand next to Sawyer in the observation room.
“Huh?” Sawyer looked up from the time sheets he was perusing. He looked bewildered to be suddenly sharing the room with someone. He came around quickly though, there being only one “French fuck” in the vicinity at the moment. “Oh, that’s Claudel Lemaitre.”
“The French kid?” Dalton had heard of him, but he had looked like a drowned rat the last time he had seen him—all awkward and lanky, his Speedo almost falling off of his skeleton of a frame. Of course, Claudel had probably been about sixteen or seventeen at the time and at his first international races, but still. It was a shock to see the kid all grown up... and sniffing around one of his swimmers.
“French kid, French fuck, call him what you want, but yes. That is Claudel Lemaitre, in the flesh,” Sawyer said and went back to his time sheets.
“What’s he doing getting all up on Jessi like that?” Dalton asked. He looked down at the pool deck and scowled. Lemaitre was finding little ways to touch Jessi, and by the look in his eyes, was thinking about how best to climb her frame. Practice had been over for a while now, and while the reporters had access to the swimmers for the next fifteen minutes, Dalton had an overwhelming urge to tell Lemaitre his time was up.
“Probably trying to get laid,” Sawyer replied nonchalantly, still not looking up from the time sheets.
“What?” Dalton felt the blood rising to his face. He was beginning to notice an irrational sense of anger he didn’t want to put a name to. The last thing he needed to do was get jealous over Jessi Pruitt. Not only would that be seriously ridiculous, but of all people, he certainly had no right to tell Jessi who she
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