Chapter 5
HOLLISTER
What the hell just happened? One second, we’re locked in a tense rhythm, battling it out with her impressive skills.
Next, she’s gone. Snatching up her bag and jogging up the path to the clubhouse.
My body is on fire from watching her tiny tennis skirt flip up, exposing her white compression shorts and more flawless skin I’d love to explore.
I’m so fucking confused.
“Babs?” I call after her, jogging to the net.
Nothing.
No turn of the head. No final comment tossed over her shoulder in that razor-edged voice of hers. Just long, deliberate strides toward the club entrance like she’s trying to outrun something. Outrun me.
I rush back to my baseline, snatch up my bag without bothering to zip it, and jog toward the edge of the court.
Racket in one hand and tennis balls still in my pocket.
By the time I reach the main path, she’s halfway to the veranda that overlooks the tennis courts.
I lengthen my stride, practically running now.
“Barbara.”
Wrong name. Too formal. Too cold. She doesn’t stop. Still nothing.
“Hollister?”
I grind to a halt, my name slicing through the moment like a bad ringtone. I turn my head and want to punch the air. Mr. Alastair fucking Wentworth. Member since birth. Golf handicap of five and a mustache that’s seen more powdered noses than a runway bathroom in Miami.
“Was that Babs Barrett?”
His eyes squint past me with the kind of curiosity that turns into rumors at the next fundraiser. The old man has no right to look at her that way. It makes my blood boil. I suddenly move into his line of vision, blocking her from his view, and he frowns.
“No idea,” I lie.
“Thought it was,” he mumbles more to himself, then shakes his head. “Your father spoke so highly of her husband back in the day. Real shame how that ended.”
“Yeah, real shame,” I deadpan, glaring at him now.
For one, I hate gossip, having been the subject of it too many fucking times. For two, when men do it, it’s fucking pathetic. For three, he better not even think about approaching her. She’s far too good for him, a million times over.
He claps a hand on my shoulder.
“Speaking of your father, tell him I’ll see him at the annual Harrington regatta dinner next month. I assume you’ll be there, too?”
“Not sure.”
“Oh, come on now,” he chuckles, like we’re old pals.
Like I don’t want to pound him into the concrete path we’re standing on. Suddenly, I feel all grumpy and moody like Dominic. Wanting to beat asses and not care who I offend.
“He’s very proud of you, you know. Says you’re the only one of the bunch with the balls to break tradition. Engineering, was it?”
I step out of his grip, inching away. Pre-law, dumb fuck, not engineering, but it doesn’t matter. None of this bullshit matters.
“Something like that.”
“Smart. Very smart. Not much future in commodities these days. At least not unless you’re winning.”
Having no fucking idea what the old man is blabbering on about, I step back. My hand tightens over my racket with the vision of rapping him over the head with it.
“Yeah. Excuse me, sir. I’ve got to . . .” I gesture vaguely toward the clubhouse.
Like I’m chasing a tee time instead of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen walk away from me. He mumbles something I couldn’t care less to hear and waves me as I break into a jog.
Last glimpse, she didn’t dive into the club, but veered to the right toward the parking lot. She’s just stepping off the curb when I finally catch up, her hand on the driver’s side door of a pearl-white coupe that looks more like a sculpture than a vehicle. Classic, impeccable, and completely her.
“Babs,” I breathe out, coming to a stop at the rear of her car. “Wait.”
She freezes.
Hand still gripping the handle. Shoulders rigid beneath that sleek tennis outfit. Like she’s weighing whether to keep pretending I’m not here.
“Babs,” I say again, softer this time.
She turns. Sunglasses still on, but I can feel the tension radiating off her like heat off the pavement. Her bag hangs loosely in her hand, with her racket sticking out. Having at least zipped it closed in the time she was running away from me.
“What happened?”
My breath is heavier than it should be. Not out of breath from playing tennis and racing after her. More swallowing down the worry that has me reaching out, and her shrinking away from my hand.
“Did I do something wrong or . . .”
I don’t know what to say. I thought everything between us was fairly innocent. She lets out a bitter breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“What happened?” she repeats, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. “People were starting to notice. The ladies next to us. We were on full view of half the women I brunch with.”
Her voice is controlled, but I hear the edge beneath it.
The tight rope she walks in this stupid high society bullshit has her pulling back from me.
Choosing safety over happiness. It drives me crazy, even if I understand how important this shit is to her.
It’s honestly all she has left after her shitty divorce and kids who don’t include her in their lives.
“I wasn’t trying to cause a scene,” I say, stepping closer. “I got a little carried away. You’re a worthy opponent, and we were having fun. I just wanted to see you today.”
She stiffens.
A beat passes and then another.
“You shouldn’t want that.”
“Maybe not,” I admit, shoving my racket into my bag out of frustration and anger at the old bitties here that make her feel like this. “But I do. You’ve been all I think about since our text messages.”
She turns her head away, jaw tight. Like she’s trying to keep it all in, whatever’s buzzing behind that unreadable mask of hers. Then, just as quickly, she pivots and yanks the car door open.
“I shouldn’t have texted back.”
She tosses her bag inside, and her body turns partially away.
“I should’ve let it go. That night was. . .” She trails off, shaking her head. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. And this, today, this was a mistake.”
She lowers into the seat, but I move fast, gripping the edge of the open door.
“You don’t get to do that.” I crouch beside her car, holding the door open. Not letting her shut me out. “You don’t get to light a match and then act like you never struck it.”
Her body goes still, and she looks straight ahead.
“I know you felt something. I was there too, remember?” I fill the silence when she doesn’t. “You don’t let just anyone touch you like that. You don’t send texts like that unless you mean it. And you sure as hell don’t look at someone like you looked at me and call it a mistake.”
She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t move either. Her fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles pale. Her legs flex on the pedals, her quad muscles defined and looking heavenly in the sunshine.
I lower my voice and lean closer. Being so low affords me a bit of privacy between the cars.
“Tell me to go, Babs. Say it, and I will.”
Her jaw flexes. I watch the rise and fall of her chest as she sucks in a shaky breath. Her lips part and press back together.
She’s so stunning.
Like that night, I can’t help but touch her leg. She startles but doesn’t move it away. My hand melts into her thigh, holding it tightly. Not daring to slide up her thigh like I’d fucking love to do. That would spook the shit out of her.
“I can’t,” she finally whispers, sending my heart and cock soaring into the blue sky above us.
Two words.
They nearly undo me.
“I can’t tell you to go because I don’t want you to. But I don’t know how to want this either. I don’t know what to do with this . . . you.”
I nod slowly. Not a victory. Not satisfaction, just understanding.
“I don’t either.”
If we’re confessing, then I should spill mine.
I’ve never lusted after a friend’s mom. I’ve been lusted after in the past, but this is different.
Babs Barrett is different. She’s a rare gem in a vault of crowded jewels.
She holds herself with such restraint and utter control that even getting a glimpse of this vulnerability, the same as that night, is a prize hard fought and well won.
“You don’t?”
She finally faces me, her eyes obscured by sunglasses, but the lenses are transparent enough to see that she’s worried and a bit scared. So am I.
“No.”
Silence sits between us. My hand squeezes her thigh to reassure her. I flash her a smile to go with it. It seems to help when she sighs.
“We don’t decide today,” I say suddenly, surprising myself as much as I surprise her.
She raises her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her dark eyes bore into me, expecting an explanation where I had none.
“We let this breathe. Whatever this is. Let it breathe. Don’t bury it just because it scares us. Because we don’t know how to do this.”
Now I’m talking for both of us. Voicing our shared worries. I don’t know how to do this any more than she does, it seems.
“You’ve never . . .” She looks away for a second, over my shoulder, as if trying to gather the right words. “Entertained something with an older woman before?”
When her eyes return to mine, they look more worried than before. Like, labeling this somehow makes it worse. Maybe it does. Maybe I’m a fool for not calling it what it is. Hell, I don’t know.
All I know is she fascinates me. Far more than anyone ever has. Even I don’t know why that is.
“No. You’d be my first.”
She studies me in silence. Then, almost imperceptibly, she chuckles. I lean back. Remove my hand. Sort of offended by her response. When her hand releases the steering wheel to toy with her pearls, I’m borderline mad.
“You’d be my first, Hollister.”