Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(5)

I sit down at my little wooden vanity (handmade by my dad) to put on a quick coat of mascara and a dab of red lip gloss. I smile into the mirror, hoping I look mature and talented enough to catch the eye of some elite recruiter tonight. As much as I love my little hometown and all its pastoral comforts, part of me has always wanted to venture out into the big, blue world and discover new places and experiences.

“Honey, are you ready to go?” my dad calls from across the house. I can hear his heavy footsteps creaking over the old wooden floors. This house has been standing here for decades and decades, and it shows. I love living in a home steeped in history like this. But I wonder what kind of history and art and culture I could discover living abroad!

“Yeah! Coming!” I shout out, slinging my purse over my shoulder and hurrying downstairs to meet my parents.

“You look beautiful,” Mom remarks. My dad sniffles a little at the sight of me and I grin. He’s such a sap.

We all pile into the car and drive to one of the few non-fast food restaurants in the area to meet up with about ten other girls from the gymnastics studio and the team of coaches, parents, and trustees involved with the program. As soon as the station wagon parks behind the restaurant, a couple of my friends catch sight of me and come running.

Holly Hixon and Ashley Wilson, my best friends, hug me tightly when I get out of the car, their faces flushed with excitement. “You’ll never believe who all is here!” Ashley gushes.

“There are people from New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago!” Holly gasps, taking my hand and pulling me toward the entrance to the restaurant. We’ve rented out the back dining room for the occasion and when we walk in, we go straight back, my parents following behind hand-in-hand.

There’s a long table in a decorated room, a white banner hanging on the wall that says GOOD WORK! It’s all a little cheesy, but it’s still sweet of them to put this together for us. The table is populated mostly by familiar faces, colleagues I train alongside every week, but there are several exceptions. The high-class men and women from big cities stand out like sore thumbs in this crowd. Even dressed in our modest best, we native residents look like country bumpkins next to the sleek black suits and designer makeup jobs of the talent scouts and recruiters. For a moment, I feel slightly embarrassed. I have a feeling these big-time folks look down on us just a little bit. After all, they’ve probably never been to a town with a population this small, in a place this far off the beaten path.

I take a seat between Holly and Ashley at the table, my parents sitting closer to the far end with the other parents and the coaches. After we all place our orders, I sip my homemade sweet tea and glance idly up and down the table at the unfamiliar people. Right across from me is a rather severe-looking, yet handsome man with olive skin and sleek dark hair. His eyes are a striking grayish-green, standing out in his serious, dark features. He looks to be at least five to ten years older than me, but he’s considerably younger than the other out-of-towners. He also looks less like a gymnast himself and more like… well, like a secret agent type. It’s the only way I can think to describe him. He has a grave, calculating expression, like he’s deep in thought the entire time, despite all the lighthearted banter surrounding him. I wonder what’s on his mind.

Then, just as I’m blatantly studying his face, those expressive jade-colored eyes turn toward me, locking gaze with mine. I instantly feel my cheeks burn, as I’ve been caught staring. I quickly look away, smiling at some silly remark Ashley is making to her coach. I try to play it off like I wasn’t just openly gawking at the attractive older man in front of me.

Smooth move, Olivia, I think to myself.

Our food arrives and the conversation quiets down a little as we all eat, but I can’t shake the sensation of being watched. I can feel those intense eyes burning a hole in my head from across the table, even if I don’t dare to look up and check. I focus on my chicken parmigiana and green beans instead, occasionally laughing at a joke someone makes.

And when the meal is over and we’re all transitioning into the schmooze and mingle part of the banquet, my parents sidle over to me to whisper in my ear what kind of intel they’ve gathered about the talent scouts and agents in the room.

“That woman down there used to train with former Olympic gymnasts,” Mom says softly, pointing to a butch-looking woman in a pantsuit.

“That guy over there is a talent agent from an elite studio out in California,” Dad tells me, nudging me toward a snivelly-looking man with a mustache.

“Wh-what about him?” I work up the courage to ask, gesturing subtly toward the green-eyed man who sat across from me at the table earlier. My mom shrugs.