Chapter 4 #2
Rarely did my ex-husband hold me as tenderly as he did. It’s been one of many things I can’t stop thinking about.
“You still haven’t said you’re not interested.”
“I haven’t said I am, either.”
His fingertips inch toward mine, brushing my pinky finger long enough to make his intention known.
“You don’t have to. I already saw it.”
That earns him a quiet, dangerous smile.
“Careful, Hollister. You may find that what you saw was vulnerability. Not desire.”
“I know the difference,” he quips, leaning back in his chair. His chin tilting toward the sun, peeking through the edge of the umbrella. “And so do you, Barbara.”
The silence stretches, thick and charged, between us as I sip from my tea under his intense stare. Only after I have thoroughly quenched the heat in my throat and body, do I reply with a candid answer of my own.
“I didn’t think you’d actually pursue this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m me.”
He doesn’t even blink.
“That’s exactly why I am.”
He takes a sip of his tea, watching me over the rim like he’s considering something dangerous. Then he sets it down with an utterly wicked expression.
“You know.” A pause and a smirk. “I heard you’re decent with a racket.”
I blink.
Offended.
“Decent?”
“Maybe that’s generous.”
He waves a dismissive hand in the air and looks around at the other clubgoers for the first time since we set eyes on each other.
“Careful,” I murmur, sliding my sunglasses back on and giving him a taste of his own medicine. “You’re starting to sound like a man who wants to lose in front of an audience.”
His dark blue eyes return to mine. Lazy and amused, followed by a grin that should be illegal at this club.
I’m quickly seeing the appeal of Vanessa having her Sven.
He’s quite a bit younger than we are. If he has an ounce of this college kid’s charisma and charm, I understand how she’s so ensnared.
“Careful,” he echoes, dragging out every syllable of the word. “You’re sounding like someone about to be challenged.”
My brows lift over the rim of my sunglasses.
“Are you daring me to play you?”
“One set. Just for fun, Babs.”
I let the silence drag. Just long enough to make him question whether I’ll bite. Then I gaze at my manicured hands, wondering if I should get them done now and leave him wondering or accept his challenge.
Live a little, Babs.
I stand and smooth over my skirt. Pick up my racket bag with the grace of someone who’s been here a thousand times before, then glance over my shoulder.
“You should know, I was club champion two years ago.”
He’s on his feet in a flash, snatching his glasses off the table to slide them on.
“That supposed to scare me?”
“No,” I say, stepping into the sun. “Just figured you should know what you’re walking into. I only lost the title because Elise plays tennis like it’s a full-contact sport. Very intense.”
He falls into step beside me. His hand brushes mine intentionally.
“You play like you have something to prove?”
I flash him a smile that never quite reaches my eyes behind my sunglasses.
“Not anymore, hot stuff. I’ve already proved it.”
He clutches his heart, stumbling back like he’s been hit with Cupid’s arrow. Yes, I can definitely see how Vanessa got herself into this situation and why she refuses to get out of it.
“Hot stuff? I’ll take it.”
He snaps his hand in the air as if literally catching the words and keeping them forever.
It’s endearing, earning him a small smile.
We reach an empty court. He tosses his bag down, gets out a couple of balls, and stuffs them in his pockets.
Rolls his shoulders like he’s warming up for war.
I place mine on the bench at the entrance of the court, ensuring it’s out of my way and the way of others.
“You serve or receive?” I ask, unzipping my bag.
“You’re the lady. You choose.”
I nod toward the baseline. “Then I’ll receive.”
He jogs to the service line while I finish retrieving my racket and a fresh set of sweatbands. I trade my sunglasses for my visor and adjust my ponytail. I need to do everything to ensure I can win this small match against him.
He nods at me over the net, waiting as I stretch my legs.
“Little do you know,” he says, cocky and smooth, bouncing the ball several times. “I’m the reigning men’s champion at my club.”
I blink and laugh.
“That sounds like something a man says when he’s compensating.”
He tosses the ball in the air, and then he serves. Hard. The ball cuts through the air like a bullet and clips the service box line with such precision that I don’t even move.
Ace.
“Game on,” he calls, retrieving another ball, already smirking.
I square my shoulders, shift my weight, and smile. He may be the men’s champion, but I’ve made grown men cry on this court. He just doesn’t know it yet. He tosses another ball, slower this time, like he’s letting me prepare.
How kind.
I adjust my stance at the baseline. Tighten my grip and refocus.
The problem isn’t his serve. It’s him. The sun hits him just right.
His hair is a little too long and damp at the nape of his neck, catching the light like it was cast just for this moment.
His forearm flexes when he tosses the ball, lean muscle coiled with precision, making his tattoos dance on his skin.
When he swings, the movement is clean and powerful. A bit reckless, but refined. And oh my, I feel it low, deep, and very unwelcome. I haven’t felt that kind of pulse since before the divorce. Maybe not even then.
He plays like a man who’s used to winning, knowing how to move his body with intention.
There’s a squint in his eyes, the sharp focus of a real competitor, not some spoiled boy swinging for attention.
He’s had lessons, hundreds of them, followed by thousands of hours of practice from the looks of it.
Maybe his statement about being a champion is true.
It’s infuriating and wildly arousing.I return the next serve with more force than necessary, clipping the line near his feet. He lets out a low whistle.
“Touché, Babs.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
He catches it, laughing. His charming smile kills me every time.
We volley back and forth, the rhythm building.
Each stroke is more intentional. More intimate.
Like a conversation with no words, just breath, eye contact, and skin.
He lunges for a backhand, and the stretch of his torso pulls his shirt just high enough to expose a slash of skin.
Tanned, toned, with more tattoos, and a thin trail of hair disappearing into his white shorts.
Oh my.
I falter for half a second. Just enough for him to slam the ball down the sideline and win the point.
“And that’s how it’s done,” he says, wiping his brow with the edge of his shirt and flashing more glistening skin.
My thighs clench on instinct. I take a breath, then another. Chanting to myself that it’s just a match. So why does every glance feel like foreplay? Why does the sound of his exhale between points go straight to my core? I step to the baseline. He bounces the ball.
“Still want to keep playing?” he asks, that grin tilting lazy and dangerous at once.
“I haven’t even started playing,” I reply, bending low into my ready position.
My knees aren’t steady, not because I’m out of shape, but because I want him and shouldn’t.
Because he’s my son’s best friend and nearly two decades too young and probably has a string of girls who’d kill to be in this moment.
But none of them were in that hallway with me.
None of them saw what he saw. None of them touched what he touched.
And now, he’s standing across the net from me like he already knows how this ends.
I’m in so much trouble.
This is the opposite of discreet and careful. This is loud and vulgar. Flying in the face of good manners and tennis etiquette. Flying in the face of everything I’ve built to survive.
My grip tightens on the racket.
His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flinch. It just holds me there, suspended in the slow unravel of something I can't control.
Suddenly, the challenge to beat him, to deliver a screaming ace and wipe that cocky grin off his face, becomes too much under the scrutiny of the stares floating in from the next court.
Another doubles team is watching. Women I’ve known for years.
Women who will be at the luncheon tomorrow and the charity auction next week.
Women who notice everything. The simmer between us isn’t simmering anymore.
It’s boiling. Bubbling over. Visible. What started as a flirtation, a controlled, sophisticated game, has turned into a spectacle.
A story.
A whispered headline waiting to bloom like poison in the club locker room. I step back and lower my racket.
“No,” I murmur, more to myself than him.
He frowns across the court, straightening slowly.
“You okay?”
I’m not. I’m flushed and exposed and completely off my axis.
“I-I need to go.”
I turn too fast and jog toward the sideline. My hands move on instinct. Tossing my racket into the bag, throwing in my visor, and snapping the zipper. He’s already walking toward me.
“Babs.”
But I’m gone.
I don’t wait. I sling the bag over my shoulder and walk toward the back of the clubhouse.
Never once turning around. Never letting him see how badly my knees are shaking or how my heart is slamming in my chest like I just lost something I didn’t even know I wanted.
Because if I stay, people will know. The ladies will talk.
If I stay, I’ll lose.
I’ve already lost too much.