Chapter Four
Four
“Shut the front door. Shut up!” Annie announced, shoving Meg playfully. “What were you thinking? A stranger? Tied up? In your car? I am so jealous, I hate you!” Annie said, shoving Meg once more for good measure. “Not really. You know I love you.” She squinted, grabbing Meg by the collar and clamping her into a bear hug. “I am so proud of you. Look at you. Stepping out of your comfort zone and snogging some stranger in your wittle bwue hatchback!”
“Ew. You make it sound so creepy. Can you keep your voice down, please?”
Across the parking lot, the click-clack of pickleballs on paddles echoed across the courts.
In an exaggerated whisper, Annie dropped her voice from dentist’s drill to squeaky toy. “I’m so excited for you. You deserve a little happiness. Tell me everything. Did you…you know?”
“Screw some random ferry guy in my car on a side street in Queen Anne? Do you think I’ve lost my mind?”
“Oh. Okay. Good. I mean. Save a little mystery for the next time. When are you going to see him again?”
“About that…” Meg hedged. “It all kind of happened so fast. And his phone died and mine fell under the seat when he tilted it back. And then I guess we…forgot.”
“Forgot?” Annie’s expression indicated that this was the part of the story that was unacceptable. “You got his name, right?”
“Yes, I got his name,” she conceded. “It’s Ethan. Fine. But he doesn’t do social media, so don’t bother stalking him.”
Annie pursed her lips. Certainly, if Annie had been in Meg’s place, she would have memorized Ethan’s number and Googled his full life history by now. But actually, Annie would never have been in her place. For that matter, Meg couldn’t believe that assertive woman in the hatchback had been the same Meg that Vance had pegged as a pushover. Even though her actions had been wildly out of character, Sucker Meg had to hand it to Seat Belt Meg. Despite her embarrassment immediately afterward, and her relief this morning knowing she would never have to face Ethan again, in her heart of hearts, the tingly memory of her actions made her feel downright liberated.
Annie adjusted her visor carefully over her cute cut. “I don’t know what to do with you sometimes,” she sighed.
“Play pickleball?”
“Excellent suggestion.” Armed with their paddles, they marched through the gate to the high school’s courts.
Compared to Meg’s days as a pickleball virgin back in January, the courts were thick with players. Once school let out in June and as the days neared the summer solstice, the sky stayed bright until ten at night, allowing anyone with an itch to play time in the day to squeeze in a little pickleball. By four in the afternoon, all six courts were crowded with players—from fast-as-lightning teens to athletic senior citizens. The sport connected the physics professor and the dog walker, the available singles and the married couples, the professional baseball player and the amateur Ping-Pong enthusiast; all ethnicities, ages, faiths, and classes were blurred to oblivion by the addictive game. Some of the players were picklechasers—ballers who spent too much time in their cars racing from court to court trying to find the perfect game, beleaguered by FOMOOP—fear of missing out on pickleball. But most, like Meg, were regulars. As she glanced toward the sidelines, Meg noticed the soccer mom whose tennis skirt matched her tween daughter’s; an eighty-two-year-old who had once arrived with a pillowcase filled with zucchini from her garden to share around; the ex–Olympic rower who rode his bike to the courts, played hours of pickleball, and then rode home; and five of the six Daves. Groups of four paddles lined the pavement, evidence of the spare players jockeying for an open court.
By the time their own waiting paddles hit the front of the line, Annie had wrangled one of the Daves and Rooster to play opposite her and Meg.
Rooster, too, was newish to pickleball, having learned to play little more than a year ago, but if he hadn’t told her, she wouldn’t have guessed. As a former tennis player, he had taken to pickleball like butter to bread. Although Rooster would play against her for this game, she and Rooster often partnered as teammates, and they balanced each other well. They were an unlikely combination: Meg, with her energy and speed in a pint-sized container, alongside Rooster’s smooth and accurate play. He was a youthful seventy—still strong and good-looking in a rugged, Mr. Clean kind of way. Like an aging rock star. Without the drugs and the long hair. So not at all like a rock star, actually.
Annie took a ready stance beside Meg. Lifting her chipper voice over the bounce of the plastic balls on the surrounding courts, Annie reminded her friend, “Point your foot where you want the ball to go. And say the complete score before you move to serve.” Annie could have been one of the professionals in her neon green hoodie, which matched the piping on her black tennis skirt, which matched the logo on her visor and her ankle socks. Beside her, Meg had thrown on a Kraken ice hockey sweatshirt. After a couple of jogging bounces to warm her shorts-clad legs, she steadied herself and checked her stance.
“That’s it,” Annie cheered. “Look at my partner go!” For a couple of months, they had practiced playing half-court “skinny” singles or just-for-fun matches with other beginners in the early mornings, but in recent weeks Meg had begun playing with Annie’s community of players—the Lakeview league—who took over the crumbling high school tennis courts after school and over the breaks. Nets sagged over chalky asphalt. Toward the corners of the six courts, cracks stretched in slender lines toward the center of the playing area. Annie had warned her: the courts were crap, but the community was quality. Meg had been welcomed by the easygoing and friendly group.
A shrill shout startled Meg. “Just serve the damn ball!”
There were exceptions, of course.
From the sidelines, Jeannie, a sportsmanship-challenged regular with a killer backhand, jeered, “Are you playing, or should we all take a break and get a friggin’ latte?”
“Cool it,” Meg’s opponent Rooster warned. On the other side of the net, the older man held steady in his ready position, unruffled. A model of fairness and patience, Rooster threw a restraining glare at the clump of waiting players. “She’ll serve when she’s ready. And watch your language, Jeannie. There are kids here.”
“Yeah,” remarked Andrés, who was all of thirteen, from the next court over. “Watch your damn language.”
Thank heavens for Rooster. Other than Annie, he was one of the few people willing to play with or against a beginner. But not everyone on the courts was as patient. Rooster’s partner gave an angry huff. “Enough talk. Let’s play,” Buff Dave complained. With six Daves on the courts, each one needed a nickname.
“What’s the hurry? It’s pickleball! Everybody take it easy,” Rooster soothed.
At the end of her short rope, Jeannie threw up her hands. She used her paddle to direct traffic and guide her three gal pals to vulture themselves behind Meg. They set up camp, angling to commandeer the court. Meg gulped and held her ground.
“Screw you, Rooster,” Jeannie griped. “There are people waiting.”
By now, volleys had ceased on the neighboring courts, the players’ attentions captured by the impending picklebrawl.
The only other sound came from the farthest court. “Michael Edmonds!” Michael Edmonds yelled, shouting his own name as he proclaimed a victory shot for the umpteenth time.
There was no need to turn in Michael Edmonds’s direction. Meg did not need to look; she could picture him: a goofy, off-kilter smile on his face, his long arms raised to the sky like goalposts as he announced his own win. Annie, however, swiveled at the sound of Michael’s voice, and for a long moment, she stared wistfully in his direction.
Her friend’s distraction sparked the memory of yesterday’s encounter, and before she knew it, Meg, too, had wandered off to visit the mayor of Daydreamland, where Sexy Seat Belt Guy waited with his cheeky banter, his manicured nails, his accidental deployment of the airbag—
“Earth to Meg…” Annie whispered, and Meg’s head shot up, caught. Annie gasped with mock shock. “You were thinking about that hot ferry guy. I knew it!”
Jeannie mumbled, “This ain’t the nail salon, ladies. Play!”
“Oh my god. You were, weren’t you? You got all googly-eyed…”
“That’s it. Get off the court.”
As he stepped out of the portable toilet, Dress Shirt Dave tucked in his shirttails and checked his collar. “What is going on out here? I can hear you all bickering from inside.”
Jeannie widened her stance. “They won’t play, and they won’t get off the courts.”
Meg’s shoulders curled inward. Maybe they should just give up the court. She didn’t want to cause a scene. Already, Dress Shirt Dave’s presence meant the argument had gone too far. His cool head held a lot of sway on these courts.
Dress Shirt Dave wiped his hands with antibacterial gel and shook his head with paternal disappointment. “Listen, Jeannie. We’re on school grounds. If we want to be allowed to keep using these courts before the remodel, we have to act like adults. Play nice, all right? We want to do everything we can to make sure they go ahead with the new pickleball courts.”
Meg nodded her support. Along with the plan for the new building, the school district was thinking of tearing down the decrepit courts and replacing them with state-of-the-art, dedicated pickleball courts. This afternoon, a construction crew had been milling about and meeting with school administrators. Among the players and in her own heart, optimism was building. New courts would be a boon to the whole community.
“And anyhow,” Dress Shirt Dave pressed, keeping his tone agreeable, “you of all people ought to know better. Aren’t you a teacher?”
“I’m a friggin’ school counselor. And so what?” Jeannie puffed out her chest. “Not at this school.”
“I’m ready.” Meg waved her paddle for attention. “I’m serving. I’m gonna serve now.” She took a powerful breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She arranged her left foot to point where she wanted the ball to go and checked her posture.
“Serve!” Jeannie called from six inches behind her ear.
Everything in Meg’s petite frame clenched, from her gold-streaked waves to her pink toenails. “What was the score?”
Across the net, Rooster gave a shrugging shake of his head. “Hell if I remember.” His eyes darted toward the sidelines, a sudden sheepishness overtaking him. “Sorry, Laverne. I mean, heck if I remember.”
“No sweat, sugar pie.” Rooster’s wife, Laverne, did not glance up from her cell phone. Stationed in a folding lounge chair, she waved away the interruption to her texting. “No problemo.”
“Zero-zero,” Annie reminded Meg helpfully.
Annie kept her voice light. “We’ve got this. Paddle up,” she cheered. The phrase was as much of a reminder as it was a greeting, a motto, and a way of life among pickleballers.
From the opposing side, Rooster threw both hands in the air to stop the action. “Time out,” he called. He approached the net.
“Now what?!” Jeannie cried, apoplectic.
Rooster leaned over the net and met Meg’s eyes. “You’re doin’ fine, kid. You just keep doing you and don’t let the prattle rattle ya.” Rooster and Annie shared a quick glance, like they were in on this pep talk together. “Remember. There are only two things out here that matter. You and the ball. And the ball doesn’t really matter.” He marched back to his baseline. “Okay. We can play now.”
“Sorry,” Meg whispered.
“No sorrys in pickleball,” Rooster shot back.
Meg collected herself. She shut out the static and grounded herself in the here and now, absorbing the familiar landscape of the high school pickleball court. She filled her lungs with the picklebally air and concentrated on finding the confidence to play her best.
Meg cradled the plastic ball against her paddle. Pressing her fingers into the pea-sized holes of the 2Win tournament-quality ball, she prepared for the solid thwack and quick action of a professional pickleball.
“4–10,” Meg called, mustering her confidence. “Second serve.”
She dropped the ball and swung the paddle. Smack! Meg’s serve flew over the net. Not as deep as she hoped, but passable.
Zoom. The plastic sphere hurtled back to her, much faster than she anticipated. It was all she could do to run forward and hold her paddle out in front of her to block her face. She swung hard.
Smack! It always felt good, hitting the ball with all her might.
“Hit softer!” Annie whispered. “Remember. It’s about control.”
The clever part of her brain agreed with Annie. Change the tempo of the hit, and the bangers won’t be able to slam it back. “Soft!” the little angel on Meg’s right shoulder urged.
“Ugh!” Meg hit the ball as hard as she could while the tiny devil on her left shoulder laughed and laughed.
Up the ball flew. Up to the candy spot, the one that nobody in their right mind could resist. Meg’s ball soared and soared, straight up toward Buff Dave’s right hand: his forehand slam hand. Her blunder was too tempting to ignore.
Bam! Buff Dave’s wrist snapped forward, aiming the ball nearly straight down.
Quick as a flash, Meg dug her paddle beneath the hurtling sphere. It landed hard and boomeranged off her paddle. The ball soared back over the net.
When he saw it coming, Rooster tried to block the incoming missile. But his reaction was too late. The ball smacked against the edge of his paddle and ricocheted into his eye. Rooster crumpled. “Aw, fuuuuu—!” spewed from his lips as he went down. A collective gasp passed over the courts.
On the far court, unaware of Rooster’s injury, a shout of “Michael Edmonds!” sounded as the man congratulated himself on a well-placed shot.
“Rooster!” Meg cried. She moved to leap over the net, but she changed her mind at the last second, when she envisioned landing in a heap beside him. Instead, she raced around the post to where Rooster sat on the cracked asphalt, his hand cupping his eye.
“Oh. Shit. Shit that hurts. Mother-fightin’ son of a shoemaker—”
“Let me see it,” Meg encouraged. “Take your hand away.”
Fingers trembling, Rooster pulled his hand from his eye. Meg sucked in air through her teeth.
“Ooh,” Meg said, tamping down the wince and forcing a nonchalant shrug. A redness was spidering itself through the whites of Rooster’s eyeball. The brow and the socket were an angry shade of pink, save for the peach-toned negative space mark that remained where one of the holes in the pickleball had hit. “I’m so sorry.”
“No sorrys in pickleball,” Rooster responded automatically, his voice barely a groan. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“Rooster. Can I take a look?” Annie appeared by his side, her playfully competitive demeanor gone, replaced by her serious doctor mode. She gently probed the eye, causing Rooster to let out a pained moan. “You’re lucky it missed your eyeball, but you’re going to bruise around the socket. Will you please invest in some good sports glasses? In the meantime, how ’bout you lie down awhile on Laverne’s lounger?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Come on. This’ll heal right up. We gotta be prepared for all kinds of blips out here on the courts.” He rocked himself back to standing. “See?”
Laverne perked up from her lounge chair. “Darlin’? You all right?”
Rooster waved off her concern, limping toward her. As he hobbled, Meg took note of an O-shaped welt on his arm; Rooster earned his pickleball badges and wore them with pride. “Stop all your fussing,” he said. “It’s a scratch.”
But Laverne was already digging into her commodious purse. “I gotcha.” She pulled an ice pack from a Mylar freezer bag.
Meg couldn’t help but smile. The woman thought of everything and looked out for everyone. When Annie had introduced Meg to the Lakeview league, Laverne was one of the first to welcome her. Laverne’s support, Meg noticed, extended beyond ice packs and sideline advice. Rooster’s wife kept up the group’s spirit as the unofficial league cheerleader, even though she herself was an NPC, a member of the Non-Pickleballing Crew (“Why would I wanna play that game? It’s like Ping-Pong but standing on the table. I don’t understand why everyone feels the need to shrink everything. Miniskirts, minigolf, minicars. And now we got mini tennis! What’s next? Mini margaritas? No thank you.”) Nevertheless, from her lounge chair, she rooted for Rooster, surfed social media, and sipped something from her Hydro Flask that kept her in good cheer for hours at a time. Now Laverne tut-tutted and pressed the ice pack to her hubby’s swelling eye.
Rooster resigned himself to receiving her ministering. “Put my paddle in line, will ya?” he asked Meg. “We can play together. I’ll be good by the time it gets around to us again.”
On the far court, a group of advanced players waved Annie over to join them. “You played well,” she assured Meg before heading toward the big-kids’ court. “I’ll be right over there if you need me. Playing with…” She pointed a thumb at Michael Edmonds, then gave a lewd wiggle of her eyebrows before busting into giggles. Meg rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
Annie was at the top of her field for pediatric medicine, but when it came to Michael Edmonds, she turned into a middle schooler at a slumber party. Unfortunately, while she and Michael made for a solid pickleball partnership, what Annie believed was successful flirting, Michael perceived as Annie blinking a bug out of her eye.
While Meg waited, she watched Annie play with a combination of awe and envy. A year ago, Annie Yoon had been a beginner, too. But in typical Annie fashion, she did not wait for the pickleball skills to come to her; instead, she practiced mornings and evenings, took lessons, listened to critique without taking it personally, and managed to absorb and apply new techniques. That was Annie, all around. She applied herself with singularity toward any challenge.
Meg’s skill building moved at a slower pace. Before pickleball, Meg’s hand-eye coordination consisted solely of activities related to her Crafty Cat Collar business—like loading the hot glue gun and bedazzling cat tags. Neither of which required much reaction time. Training her hands to work in sync with her brain while still paying attention to her legs made for glacial progress, but little by little, she was improving. She hoped.
So, Meg set her and Rooster’s paddles at the end of the waiting stacks, unashamed to point the handles down to indicate their beginner’s status. But while the other teams moved forward in groups of four, it grew more and more apparent that nobody wanted to join Rooster and Meg’s beginner’s match.
From his spot next to Laverne, Rooster nodded his chin toward their progressing paddles on the ground. “Looks like we’re up next. If anyone will play with us.”
“I don’t mind if you have to wait a bit longer,” Laverne said.
Peering down at her hand, Meg scanned the open expanse of her ring finger. How did Rooster and Laverne do it? How did they make their love last? Meg still could not understand where she’d gone wrong. She had bent backward to support Vance: had fallen into the habit of sacrificing her desires—selling crafts instead of dedicating her energies to her painting, canceling plans whenever he had time rather than hanging out with her girlfriends—in order to devote herself more completely to their relationship. She made the shifts willingly, but there was also some shame, trailing her like a shadow, in putting aside her own happiness for his. He once observed that she would cheerfully take on the most odious of tasks rather than say no to a request. “Always a people pleaser,” he’d said. In her heart, she knew he meant pushover, and the memory of the label prickled across her neck.
And what had her desire to please cost her? Their last night out had been a double date with Vance’s potential business partner and his wife. Beforehand, they passed the full-length mirror by the front door. He wore a smart suit coat and tie—which she had bought him—and not a hair was out of place. She sported a vintage boho skirt with strappy sandals. Vance had shaken his head. “Would it be so hard,” he said, “to dress it up with some heels and makeup? I’m trying to make an impression here.” In minutes, she had thrown on some lipstick and changed her shoes. Sometimes, it was easier that way.
Marriage was complicated. Like one of those brainteasers where you have to look in the back of the book to find the answer, and then you kick yourself ’cause it seems so simple and everybody else you ask figures it out right away.
“Open court,” Jeannie shouted as she and her posse trotted toward the fence. Meg’s head jerked from her reverie, and she frowned. Meg’s and Rooster’s two lonesome paddles had reached the front of the line, but pickleball doubles required four players.
It was late by now, and the clouds had resettled higher in the sky. On the courts, the remaining players shaded their eyes from the blinding laser beam of the descending sun. Any pickleballer facing west swatted at the air and whiffed the shot, calling, “I can’t even see the ball!” and “We’re switching sides at six points.”
Meg squinted at the open court. She wondered if it was worth it, waiting to play now when she wouldn’t be able to see anyway.
“Don’t worry,” Laverne said helpfully. “Someone at the end of the line is bound to jump in with you, because everyone just wants to play.” But on the sidelines, the crowd avoided eye contact with the beginners. “I just need a water break” and “We already have our four” and “I think I forgot something in my car” and eight less believable justifications bounced around over the sounds of a jackhammer and the crack of pavement.
Beside the courts, preparations for the school remodel were well under way with the destruction of the nearby parking lot, and the construction workers were taking advantage of the extra daylight to finish up for the day. To Meg’s surprise, she noticed Jeannie striding toward the site, chatting with an older woman, and then leading her toward the courts.
Jeannie cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed, “Yo! People.” She indicated the visitor in slacks and a flower-print blouse. And pumps. Clearly an NPC. “This lady is Grace Helms, with the school board.”
Grace looked agog at the fifty-odd players on the courts, amazed at the sport’s popularity. “Yes. Well. Hello, everyone. Looks like fun!”
On the courts, play resumed. The school board woman pressed on, louder this time. “It’s that we’d love to have a representative from your pickleball community join in on the conversation about the direction of the courts. We’re meeting now—” Grace pointed toward the rubble of the parking lot, where, beside the bulldozer, a group of construction workers were meeting with the foreman. “Could you send someone? Just a few minutes. To have a word.”
“I’d meet with y’all,” Jeannie said, “but I’m wiped. I’ve been playing”—she checked her phone—“for four and a half hours,” she added, loudly broadcasting this badge of honor. “And I still have an hour or so in me.”
“I could meet with them,” Meg offered, shaking Grace’s hand. “Meg. Bloomberg. I’ll be happy to do it.” She would enjoy it. Pitch in a bit. Help her community.
Jeannie tagged her on the elbow. “Yeah. You do that,” she said, knowing Meg’s absence would free up some court space. “And listen. Tell ’em that when they rebuild, we want them to install lights for nighttime play.”
Buff Dave sidled up beside her. “A cover would be good, too,” he suggested. “Like a roof, so we can play in winter.” A throng of players who minutes earlier had made themselves scarce when Meg was looking for a game suddenly reappeared. “And a bathroom,” Ginny said. “Yeah,” Mustache Steve concurred. “Something that actually flushes.”
With each new idea, Grace Helms’s mouth took a downward turn, and at last, her voice rose above the overlapping proposals. “I’m afraid the construction crew won’t be taking suggestions. They would like a representative just to keep the pickleball players in the loop.”
Mustache Steve’s brow dipped in concern. “What kind of loop is that?”
“The school board is exploring some different plans for this space.”
The tone turned, and the tangible presence of confrontation swooped in like a cloud. On the far courts, balls clattered to the pavement and, sensing the arrival of a storm, the players began to close in on the cornered visitor.
“Different plans?” Jeannie’s tongue chopped the words. “What kind of different plans?”
By now, even Dress Shirt Dave, always cool under pressure, squinted at Grace Helms. “They’re not thinking about removing these courts, are they?”
For a moment, the district rep’s mouth froze, stuck in an O. “There is a plan in the works to…take out the courts and restore the wetlands here.”
“Wetlands!” Jeannie exploded. “Wetlands are for the birds.”
Ms. Helms had only time enough to take in a choked breath of air before she was beset by irate cries. “What?” “Are you kidding me?” “No!” “How could you?!” “You can’t take away our courts from us. It’s not fair!” A string of expletives spewed from Jeannie’s mouth, so foul that the school board rep’s cheeks sprouted pink splotches.
Poor Grace Helms glanced at Jeannie and, finding no sympathy there, shifted her appeal to Meg. “Why don’t you come with me, and the project leader can explain better than I can.”
Meg jumped to the rescue. “Sure. That’s fine. I’ll talk with them.” To the group, she gave her assurances. “I got this. I’ll just explain how important these courts are to us, and I’m sure we can get them to reconsider.” A brief back-and-forth ensued, with Jeannie offering to head over there and “kick some ass,” but it was agreed that Meg’s tactics might be more efficacious. Visibly relieved, Grace hustled away with Meg in tow.
As she followed Grace Helms toward the construction zone, Meg’s confidence grew. She strode, guns blazing. How dare they threaten her pickleball haven? On the outside she remained composed, sensible. With a bit of sweet-talking, she could change their minds about removing the courts. Heck, she could probably get them to build a roof and a bathroom. Jeannie’s approach would never have worked. Meg was much more suited for the role of negotiator because she was a…Her brain tripped over the phrase “people pleaser.” That was the old Meg. She was diplomatic. Persuasive. Yes. That was it.
They approached the group discreetly so as not to disrupt the conversation in progress. A yellow-hatted construction worker gestured over toward the pickleball courts.
“Over on the left-hand side we’re taking out this parking lot. And those courts as well, but we won’t get started on them until the end of summer. I understand the school and a lot of players in the Lakeview community make active use of these courts. Oh, good,” he added as he noticed the school board rep approaching. “A big thanks to Ms. Helms here and the whole school board for throwing their support behind this new proposal for the space that is currently being used as courts.”
Currently used as courts! By the time Meg was through with this meeting, not only would they keep their courts, but they would be upgraded to pickleball heaven. She would wait until the contractor finished his spiel, she decided, and then she would approach him one-on-one. Diplomatically.
Meg lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the descending sun, but still she squinted. The speaker was standing due west of her. He was, undeniably, hunky. Maybe it was an effect of the sun on her shoulders or the residue of yesterday’s sexy encounter, but a flutter of libido tingled her fingertips at the sight of this guy’s cargo pants–clad stance.
Mr. Stance-tastic said, “We’ve consulted with the school district and with the city, so everyone is on board. The neighboring city park will prioritize student use of their fields, so there won’t be big losses to the school’s athletic department. And then the real work comes in,” he added. “After the destruction, restoration.”
Bathrooms first, Meg decided. That would be her absolute first request. The needs of too many pickleballers sometimes left the portable toilets in such a state that players had to race to the nearby park out of a sense of human decency.
Cargo Pants was on a roll now. It was pleasant to let his words wash over her, listening without really having to pay attention. He described the details of the construction plan in a textured voice, so rich and rugged and…familiar. “After surveying the landscape, and with the gracious support of the district…”
A roof. Right. A roof should be next. The courts didn’t have to be enclosed. Just something to keep the rain off in winter. Like the covers over the school’s basketball courts. That would work great. And lights on timers. That would be energy-saving. That idea would appeal to a guy with a T-shirt that read Plan It Earth . Her eye skated along his T-shirt sleeve and traveled along his arms—strong arms that could carry her away in his manly pants.
She blinked hard. Gee whiz, Meg. Get a grip.
“I would like to say again how much we appreciate the sacrifice this community is making in supporting this initiative to allow nature to reclaim her territory. If any of you have any questions at all, please, don’t hesitate to—”
Where had she heard that “please” before? The word skipped around the edges of her memory, but no, she couldn’t place it. And what had she been about to ask? Something about bathroom rooves. Was “rooves” even a word? It sounded weird. What a nice, strong chin he had. A chin that could slice bread. This man was fine .
Just then, the bright sun dropped behind the trees. At last, Meg got a good look at him.
Wait a sec. He really was fine. As in Ethan Fine. From the ferry.
And the seat belt.
She stood there, mute with surprise and wondering if she had fallen into another vivid fantasy. But as she gaped in stunned silence, that dreamy, clam-chowder-lovin’ man finished with “and that’s why we will be permanently closing down the pickleball courts.”
Ethan Fine. Mr. Stance-tastic.
Destroyer of Courts.
At the instant of her realization, his gaze passed over the listening board members and landed on her. His expression hovered; he appeared confused at seeing her out of context. He blinked with surprise. “Meg?”
He was looking right at her! She thought she would never see him again, and there he was staring at her with those same soft lips and marbled shoulders and a small nick in his cargo pants where she had finally managed to cut him out of the seat belt. Her brain melted to fuzzy mush. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. She had to get out of there. She had to go. Her mouth said, “Cargo!”
“What?”
“Gotta go,” she amended.
Still he stared, boring a hole through her with his sexy, court-killing gaze. She opened her lips, but no more words were forthcoming. So Meg bolted, equally disappointed with her lack of diplomacy and her terrible sentence-building skills.