Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
October in Boston was usually a show-off, all burning reds and shocking oranges, but today the wind whipping down Tremont Street was just cold. It rattled the glass of Emmy's office, a gray reminder that winter was coming and she was currently behind on her quarterly goals.
Emmy turned her back on the dreary view, pacing the length of her office. She needed to focus, because the man on the other end of the line was currently charming her into a corner.
The problem with Tyce Duke was that he was very, very good at getting people to say yes.
"I just don't trust people who don't sweat, Emmy," Tyce said.
His voice came through her speakerphone rich and unhurried, laced with the kind of lazy confidence that came from being a two-time Wimbledon quarterfinalist. "I've been the Head Pro at the Commonwealth for a week, and the membership committee keeps sending me these.
.. porcelain dolls. I need someone real. Someone who understands the game."
"I assure you, Tyce, we are far from porcelain," Emmy said, stopping at her standing desk to type a furious note on her laptop. She was trying to project athletic energy through the phone, even if she was currently wearing heels. "We believe in chemistry. In movement."
"Movement." Tyce repeated it like he was tasting it. "I like that. You know, that's my issue right now. I'm trying to settle in, get a feel for the courts before the members descend on me this weekend, but I'm dying of boredom, Emmy. Climbing the walls."
"Surely the other pros can hit with you?"
Tyce laughed, a low, dismissive sound that was somehow still charming. "The other pros are all fifty-year-old men named Gary who want me to sign their visors and critique their serves. I can't get a workout in if I'm giving a seminar. And frankly, none of them are as pretty as you."
Emmy faltered, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "I—well. That's a unique social criteria."
"It's a quality of life criteria," Tyce corrected smoothly. “And if you think it’s unique, you haven’t been in this business long enough.
Don't get me started on the members. The tennis moms here are terrifying.
They look at me like I'm a T-bone steak.
It's making me miss the tour. I need a distraction, Emmy. I need someone fun."
Emmy's brain did a rapid calculation.
Fact: Tyce Duke was one of the most eligible bachelors in Boston.
Fact: Grant had explicitly told her to stay away from him because he was a shark.
Fact: Tyce was bored.
She recognized the frequency. The restlessness of someone too smart for the room they were in, too wired for stillness, desperate for a problem worthy of the processing power. A bored client was a malleable client—but a bored person was something she understood in her bones.
He just needed a playmate.
"I play," she blurted out.
The words left her mouth and immediately turned around to stare at her in horror.
She hadn't held a tennis racquet since the Obama administration.
Her high school "career" had consisted primarily of standing in the back of the court gossiping about the JV coach's calves while balls sailed past her head.
But the word was out there now. Hanging in the air. Impossible to retract.
"You play?" Tyce sounded delighted in a way that made Emmy's stomach drop.
"I mean, I'm no tennis mom," Emmy laughed, a light, breezy sound that concealed the fact that her heart had just stopped beating.
"But I enjoy the court. It's..." She searched for the right word—something that sounded athletic but vague, something that wouldn't peg her as completely out of her depth. "Meditative."
"Fantastic. Look, I'm booked out this week, but how about I have court time reserved at the club next Saturday at noon? Come hit with me. Save me from Gary and the tennis moms. We can talk about this matchmaking thing during the changeovers."
Emmy froze. That gave her a little over a week.
"Next Saturday?" she squeaked.
"It's just a light hit. Just keeping the arm loose. Come on, Emmy. Show me you're not just another suit with a database. How about this—if you can keep a rally going, I'll sign the retainer."
It was a challenge. It was a test. If she said no, she was just another suit. If she said yes, she was the cool, capable matchmaker who could keep up with Tyce Duke.
"I'll be there," she said.
"Great. See you on the baseline, beautiful."
The line clicked dead.
Emmy stared at her phone. The silence in her office was absolute.
"Oh God," she whispered.
She sank into her ergonomic chair, grabbed her phone and texted Harper.
Emmy
Code Red. I just told Tyce Duke I play tennis. I haven't held a racquet since high school
Harper
Omg. Is Tyce Duke the hot one? Ryan says he tips really well.
Emmy
Ryan? You've been talking to the doorman?
Harper
I might have passed by a few times on my way to work lol. It's only six blocks out of my way.
Ur not mad right?
Emmy
No! Of course not.
Harper
Good! Then you better learn tennis I guess. Don't die.
Emmy groaned, dropping her head onto her desk. Harper was busy stalking the doorman, and Emmy was on her own.
Her phone lit up again. A text from her father.
Dad
I read an article about cortisol levels in young women. I hope you aren't rushing about today, Emmy. Rushing is terrible for the constitution.
Emmy let out a short, hysterical laugh. She had just agreed to play tennis against a national champion. Her cortisol was currently visible from space.
Emmy
I am being very Zen, Dad. Moving very slowly.
Dad
Good. No sudden movements. I've asked Serle to make a very mild gazpacho for dinner. It requires almost no chewing. You should come by if you can.
Emmy
I'll try, Dad. Enjoy the gazpacho.
She sat up. She paced. She grabbed her phone again.
She needed a professional. And she was going to have to beg.
Grant picked up on the second ring.
"If this is about that date," his voice rough, like he'd just woken up, "I'm legally allowed to say no until I've unpacked my suitcase."
"It's not about Thea." Emmy gripped her phone like a lifeline. "It's an emergency. A sports emergency."
"A sports emergency?" Awake now. Amused. "Did you pull a muscle lifting a wine glass?"
"I need you to teach me how to play tennis. Like, immediately. I need a crash course."
Grant laughed. Low, rumbling, vibrating through the speaker. "You? Tennis? Em, the last time I saw you hold a racquet, you were using it to fish an earring out of a storm drain."
"That is... accurate, but unfair. I have coordination! I do Pilates five days a week at the Wharf with a demonic instructor called Cobalt Sky."
"Cobalt Sky." A beat. "Aren't those both colors? Bit monochromatic if you ask me."
"I'm serious! I don't need to be Serena Williams. I just need to not look like a complete fool. Please, Grant. You're the most athletic person I know."
“Including West?”
“As if I could tell him about this! Yes, including West.”
She could practically hear his smug satisfaction over the phone.
"Why the sudden urge to hit a fuzzy yellow ball, Em? You trying to impress a guy?"
"It's for a client meeting. Networking. We're doing a... active consultation."
Silence on the other end. The amusement evaporated.
"Which client?"
Emmy hesitated. "It's a high-potential profile for the athlete division.”
"Emmy. Is it Duke?"
"He trapped me! He said he didn't trust people who don't sweat!"
"Tomorrow." Immediate. No hesitation.
"What?"
"Tomorrow morning. I can get us onto the private court at my building."
Emmy let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for ten minutes. "Thank you. You're a lifesaver. What time? Nine?"
“Six.”
“Six?!” Emmy shrieked. "Grant, the sun isn't even fully committed at six.”
"You want to play with the big dogs, Em? You wake up when the big dogs wake up." His voice dropped, taking on that irritatingly authoritative captain tone. “Six AM. My lobby. Do you have a racquet?"
"I think there's a vintage Wilson in my closet—"
"Never mind. I'll handle it. Go to bed, Princess. You're gonna need the beauty sleep."
The line went dead before she could object to the nickname.
Emmy stared at the phone. She was going to kill him. After he saved her career, she was definitely going to kill him.
Thursday morning arrived with the subtlety of a blunt force trauma.
At 5:58 AM, Emmy walked into the private fitness center of the Millennium Tower clutching a water bottle like a weapon.
She was wearing a pristine, blindingly white tennis dress she had expedited from Revolve.
It had a pleated skirt, a cutout back, and a price tag that should have come with a stern talking to by her financial advisor.
She looked the part. She felt like a fraud.
She swiped her guest pass and headed for the indoor court. The rhythmic thwack-echo-thwack of a ball being hit reached her before she opened the glass doors.
She stepped inside.
The court was cavernous, smelling of rubber and filtered air. And there, on the far baseline, was Grant.
He wasn't wearing white. He was in a slate-gray performance tee that clung to his chest and black athletic shorts, already glistening with sweat, his hair pushed back from his forehead. He looked focused and lethal and entirely too awake for seven in the morning.
He tossed a ball into the air, coiled his body like a loaded spring, and cracked a serve down the center line.
It sounded like a gunshot.
Emmy stopped in the doorway.
"Oh no."
Grant caught the rebound off the back curtain, spun the racquet in his hand, and looked at her. He didn't smile. He checked his watch.
“5:59. Late again, Woodhouse."
"I am punctual," Emmy corrected, walking onto the court. The acoustics made her sneakers squeak aggressively. "And I am ready."
Grant looked her up and down. His gaze lingered on the pleated skirt for a fraction of a second too long before snapping back to her face.
Then his eyes dropped to her feet. He frowned.