Chapter 19
PAIGE
I wake up early the next morning with a wine-induced headache and sunshine streaming in through the windows. When I push them open, the air smells softly of the jasmine that grows on the villa’s facade.
I lean out against the wrought iron of my French balcony.
There’s no tiring of this view. The gardens spread out beneath the villa like a green sprawl, tall spiral cypresses and old knotted olive trees contrasting with neat hedge rows and overflowing lavender.
And the lake, always the lake, glittering beneath the sun.
It’s not the ocean. The part of me raised in a seaside town wants to argue it’s not as nice, but I’d be lying. This has a charm all its own.
There’s a rhythmic thud in the distance. It rings out over the still gardens. Thud. Thud. Thud. It’s a sound I know as well as my own heartbeat.
Someone’s playing tennis.
Rafe has a court, and of course he would be up early playing despite the copious amounts of wine we had last night. I don’t think. I just change into workout clothes instead and stick my feet into a pair of trainers.
He was right yesterday when he revealed just how much he’s learned about me.
I rarely play anymore.
After losing my parents, getting out of bed was hard. But I had to keep playing to keep my scholarship. So I played every single game in front of an audience, with the pressure of having to perform.
An audience of strangers, but never my parents, the ones who had taught me how to play and loved cheering me on.
It turned my love of the game sour. And after college, there were so many other things to do. My weekly games became monthly. Sometimes quarterly.
I head downstairs and walk through the gardens.
The sounds become clearer. They must be rallying, because the hits come quicker than in friendly game. It’s the sound of practice.
I round the corner and nearly stumble over the rough stone steps to the court.
Rafe is on the court with his back to me.
Another man stands across from him in backward cap, sending alternating balls across the net so Rafe has to switch from forehand to backhand at a moment’s notice.
He’s strong.
That’s my first observation.
He’s not the fastest, but he’s strong. He returns all the shots the trainer sends his way with practiced ease and determined strides.
His grip shifts are immediate and smooth. From his dominant hand in Eastern on the forehand, to the top hand in Continental for his backhand. His knees bent, eyes on his trainer to anticipate the movements. He’s in black shorts and a white t-shirt, his sneakers white against the clay court.
I hate him a little for how seamless his backhands look.
Of all the fucking things Rafe Montclair is good at, does it have to be my thing? He already has my company, and he has me. I don’t want him to be good at this too.
The anger is as sharp as it is irrational.
But then I see it. He’s asymmetrical. He swings too far on his forehands, his hips and shoulders resting a second too long in the final pose. That means he resets slower than he should when a backhand shot comes.
When I played, I’d notice that in a player during our first points and work hard to exploit it. It’s been years since I thought like that. Years of focusing on other games, ones with far bigger consequences than tennis ever had.
The trainer shoots over the last ball from his basket. Rafe hits it back with an aggressive topspin, and the trainer yells something in Italian. Rafe grins widely.
I’ve never seen that grin.
Never seen anything but tight politeness and barely hidden frustration. He heads to the bench and grabs a water bottle, then calls something back in Italian.
I hate him for that, too. For speaking multiple languages so seamlessly, and for how deep his voice sounds in every one. I hate how hot it is and how he uses it when we argue, knowing I can’t understand what he’s saying.
My hand tightens at my side. I don’t have my tennis racquet.
And for the first time in a long while, I wish I did. Because I know that this, at least, is a game I can win.
The trainer sees me first. He waves a little, and that catches Rafe’s attention. He turns. His smile doesn’t disappear, but it stiffens. Like it’s etched onto his face. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses.
“Paige,” he calls. “Did you come for a lesson?”
I walk down the steps. “I don’t need a lesson.”
“Come now,” he says, and walks toward me. The trainer starts picking up balls. God, the hours I’ve spent doing that. “You’re a professional. There’s always more to learn. And you’re dressed to play.”
“I heard the sounds. Maybe I just wanted to see how good you were.”
“And how good am I?” he asks.
“You take too long to reset after your forehands,” I say.
He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “Right. And you haven’t played professionally since college.”
“It’s very creepy that you know I don’t play often, by the way,” I say. He had all the resources in the world to investigate me, when all I used was a simple internet search. The power imbalance between us has always been a yawning chasm, but right now, I feel it roar.
“I know many things about you, Paige Wilde,” he says.
“That doesn’t sound serial killerish at all.
” I reach for one of the extra tennis racquets that hang from a peg inside the tennis court shed.
It’s medium weight. It’ll do. It’s not as good as my own, the one that’s lying neglected in my closet back in Gloucester, in desperate need of restringing.
“Don’t tell me you’re friends with Roger Federer, by the way. ”
His lip curves. “Do you think all Swiss people are friends?”
“Look, if you are friends with him, never tell me. I’ll probably murder you in your sleep out of pure jealousy.”
“Who did you say the serial killer was?” he asks.
“I have a secret side hobby. I guess your research didn’t pick that up.” I shrug and grab two of the balls from the basket. “Are you done with your lesson?”
Behind his sunglasses, it’s impossible to make out his expression. His stubble is back again. Just a hint of a shadow. I like him better with the stubble, I think. Makes him look handsomely unkempt.
And then I immediately hate myself for the thought.
“Are you asking me to play, Wilde?” Rafe asks.
“We have… lots of aggression. We can get that out.”
He grabs a tennis ball. “We’ll play. You’ll serve.”
I walk toward the baseline. Rafe talks to the tennis coach, and I see them shake hands, smiling again. It’s disconcerting to see him be so friendly with people. So far I’ve only seen him with his employees or designers, and he charms them all, too.
It seems like I’m the only person he argues with.
I squeeze the tennis ball hard. It’s familiar, down to the grooves and the color. I know this. I’ve done this so many times.
“We’re keeping score!” I yell over the net.
“Don’t we always?” he calls back from his spot on the baseline. He’s taller than me by a few inches. He’ll be able to cover more ground. I need to bear that in mind.
“And the winner?” I ask.
“The charity gala later. If I win here, you behave impeccably tonight,” he calls.
My lip curves. “And if I win, you dive into the lake with your clothes on.”
He bends at the knees, racquet gripped with both hands. A textbook starting position. “It’s a deal, Wilde.”
The exhilaration rushing through me feels better than an orgasm. Headier and infinitely more consuming. Because I can win this. I don’t know what it means, that arguing with him gives me that feeling, but I don’t question it.
I throw the ball up in the air to serve.