4. Kate
Chapter Four
Kate
We’d barely kicked off our shoes before Tom, Gwen’s husband, appeared in the hallway holding a beer and wearing the frazzled expression of a man who’d just survived bedtime with a six-year-old.
He still had the bulk and authority of a military man, but fatherhood, particularly girl-dad life, had softened him in the best way.
“How was it?” he asked in a stage whisper. “Managed not to get kicked out of Wimbledon?”
“Only barely,” Gwen replied, hanging up her jacket. “Kate pulled a flirty racket boy at the Clubhouse.”
I groaned. “Please never say that sentence again.”
Tom grinned and raised his brows. “Was he hot?” he asked, slipping into his best high-pitched girlfriend voice.
“She practically choked on her whiskey when he smiled at her,” Gwen added smugly.
I gave her an exasperated look. Tom tipped his beer in my direction. “Good on you, Ashford. Who knew the Clubhouse was the new Tinder?”
“Right. I’m going upstairs before you gang up on me further,” I muttered, heading for the stairs.
My dress was digging in to me, and my head was vibrating with thoughts I hadn’t expected.
I needed to get whatever this feeling was off.
When I changed into my usual post-social uniform of leggings, an oversized hoodie, and my hair twisted into a high bun, I finally exhaled.
After a long day of walking, overpriced strawberries, Pimm’s, and exchanging far too many glances with a man who looked like temptation wrapped up in tennis whites, I needed soft clothes and tea. Preferably in that order.
When I came back down, Gwen was curled on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, grinning like a fool.
I narrowed my eyes. “What now?”
She flashed her phone screen. “Got a text.”
I groaned. “What is this, Love Island?”
“It may as well be. It’s Jordan,” she said, looking far too pleased with herself.
My stomach flipped. “Sorry, what?” I asked, shaking my head incredulously.
“He asked me to give you his number. He said, and I quote, ‘Didn’t get a chance earlier. I’d like to see her again. If she’s keen’.”
I blinked. “That’s…unexpected.” God, why was my heart suddenly racing?
“Yeah right, he was practically undressing you with his eyes at the bar,” Gwen teased, her smile practically bouncing off the walls.
I collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh. “Gwen, he probably does this in every city—sleeps with a tennis groupie and leaves a trail of them in his wake.”
Gwen gave me a look. “You forget I hear all the gossip. If he were that kind of guy, I’d know. Jordan Taylor is notoriously quiet. No scandals. Doesn’t party. Doesn’t date. Honestly? Bit of a unicorn. Even Orla says so.”
“Orla…? The physio?” I replied.
“Yes, and you know she sees it all. She’s hard to impress and takes no bullshit from anyone. She said he was a good guy.”
I stared at her phone. I didn’t want to admit it, but he hadn’t looked at me like I was a quick win.
He’d looked at me like I was interesting.
Like he was actually curious about who I was.
And it had been a long time since anyone looked at me like that.
Not that I’d tell Gwen this, but it was frankly unfair for a man to look at me like that and have dimples on top of it.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Give me the bloody number.”
She passed over her phone, and I typed out a message on my own before I could overthink it.
Me:
Passing your number through Gwen?
Bold move for a Tuesday.
I hit send immediately and buried my face in a cushion. Gwen was cackling.
The reply buzzed almost instantly.
Jordan:
Figured I used up all my charm rations at the bar.
Did it work?
My lips were twitching. God, he was smooth.
Me:
Still deciding…
Is this your usual strategy?
Jordan:
Only when the doctor orders whiskey and calls me cocky.
Was hoping I’d get to see you again.
My stomach gave a ridiculous little flip. Gwen bolted upright on the sofa now like a puppy waiting for me to throw her a ball.
Me:
That’s surprisingly sweet.
Dangerous ground, Taylor.
Jordan:
I’m a little dangerous, but only in a good way.
But mostly curious.
Dinner tomorrow?
I blinked. God, tomorrow? Wasn’t he playing?
Me:
Don’t you have a quarter-final?
Jordan:
I do.
Thought maybe you’d come watch.
Ticket’s waiting under your name.
Dinner after, win or lose.
I shifted up straighter, my heart now hammering. Ticket? He’d actually left me a ticket?
Me:
Cocky and confident.
You don’t make this easy.
Jordan:
Terrified, actually.
Still hoping you’ll show up.
I hesitated, staring at the screen as if it could think of an answer for me. Then…
Me:
We’ll see about dinner.
Depends how well you play.
Jordan:
Guess I’ve got all the motivation I need, then.
I locked my phone, feeling my cheeks flame and my heart thudding like a teenager’s.
“He left me tickets for his game,” I said, my voice a little breathless.
Gwen beamed like she’d just orchestrated a royal engagement. “Guess you’re going back to Wimbledon tomorrow.”
I didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, not really.
I hadn’t dated much recently. I didn’t get swept up in things like this.
But somehow, I was already picturing what I’d wear to his match.
What I’d say. What his mouth would feel like on mine.
God, that smile of his should be illegal.
And for a man who supposedly didn’t do this, he was dangerously good at it.