Read Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) for Free Online Page A

what I am wearing today, Floyd? Bradley tells me this isn’t appropriate for jogging.”
    Bradley coughed down a startled bark of laughter. Floyd’s eyes did a professional and nonjudgmental perusal of my body.
    “Not at all Miss . . .”
    “Please don’t call me that. I’m not a miss kind of girl. Just call me Wiska.”
    Floyd nodded. “You have Ukrainian descendants?”
    I smiled; not many people realized the heritage of my name. “I do. My mother is Ukrainian, but she has lived in America for twenty-five years now. She met my dad when she was touring, and it was love at first sight.”
    “Ahhhh,” said Floyd knowingly. “That’s my favorite kind of love. Your mother sang?” he asked politely.
    “No, she was a ballerina. She was a star; people in her home country would stop her on the street for her autograph. Not so much in America, but she didn’t care for the stardom all that much, anyway. When she met my dad . . . well, she threw it all away for him.”
    The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors slid open. “There is nothing wrong with your outfit, Miss Wiska. If anyone has a problem with it, then perhaps they need to focus more on their own shortfalls rather than trying to point out others. Have a nice run.” Floyd gave Bradley a polite tilt of the head and murmured, “Sir.”
    I laughed as Bradley gave a frustrated shake of his head at Floyd’s refusal to call him Emerson. When we hit the street, the cool morning air made my breath catch.
    “I like Floyd,” I confessed with a shiver.
    “Everyone likes Floyd. You probably shouldn’t have dressed like that because it is autumn; the mornings are a little chilly this time of year,” Bradley said with an arrogant smile.
    “That’s okay,” I said, rubbing my arms. “As soon as we get moving, I’ll warm up.”
    A woman walked by, a fluffy dog leading the way on an outstretched leash. She gave me an unimpressed glance, not even attempting to hide her distaste over my choice in clothing. Well, if this was hoity-toity-ville, and every stuck up snob in the UK lived on this street, I was going to give them a special show. “Just let me stretch before we start,” I murmured.
    A couple, who had been a little less obvious with their disapproving stares, approached, and I bent over at the waist, touching my toes and pulling my head against my knees. I was flexible; my mother had been a prima ballerina, and apparently, flexibility came naturally to us. I heard Bradley groan and the muttering of the couple who walked by, but I didn’t stop; after all, stretching was very important before rigorous exercise. I continued to bend and stretch as the odd person ambled past. For the most part, very few gawked or made comment, but Bradley’s anxious shuffling from one foot to the other at my side was strangely enjoyable, so I dragged out my warm up routine. Obviously fed up with my little performance, he turned and jogged off. I did one last lunge before I followed him.
    It was early, and the streets were quiet. Those pedestrians we did pass generally did a double take at my bright, skimpy outfit. Most people were dressed for the office, in suits and dresses with slightly differing and yet very boring shades of navy and grey, and those who were jogging, walking, or being tugged impatiently along behind their dogs were dressed in obvious work-out attire, but a little less risqué than my own. I smiled, nodded, and said hello as we jogged past them, and after a while I began to tune them out completely as I took in my surroundings. We turned a corner, and I could easily make out the lush green parkland at the end of the street. Within a few minutes, we entered a gated garden estate. Tall trees towered over the path and an enormous manicured lawn opened to our right. It reminded me of Central Park back home in New York, and a pang of sorrow stabbed at my heart.
    I missed my home. My apartment was a tiny one bedroom, but it was mine and it housed all my