CHAPTER 7
Leo
I show Rosa my phone. ‘Look at this message from Cece . . . it’s a coffee order for a meeting tomorrow morning? “Feel free to get something for yourself, Leonora, as you’ll be attending too.” He has an assistant!’
‘Prick’, Rosa scoffs before adding under her breath. ‘You should poison his latte. Add some laxatives or something.’
We both laugh and she runs to the other side, stretching out her long legs. ‘I don’t think he needs any help with that,’ I shout over as I shudder, recalling the one shared loo in our cramped old office.
I hear steps behind me and turn.
‘Hello, gorgeous girl.’ Jack is bounding towards me from the furthest court. ‘Didn’t know you were here tonight?’ He doesn’t even stop before picking me up and swirling me around. We’re both laughing as Rosa comes back over and he puts me down gently before pulling her into a hug.
‘She’s finally got you here then?’ he says, leaning back to look at me, blushing faintly.
‘I’m just in it for the outfits,’ Rosa responds with a twirl, showing off the little tennis dress she purchased earlier today, matched with cute white pop socks and chunky trainers.
Her legs are toned and perfectly tanned, and her shiny, auburn hair fans out around her as she spins. She’s a goddess.
I look down at my all-black ensemble, shoving a cap on my head with a sigh. So uncreative, I can only aspire to be that confident with my fashion one day.
‘I’ve told her to sign up for some lessons with you, Jack. She’s got potential you know.’
‘Just no actual skill.’ She pouts. Totally over the top, it makes me smile. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Please do,’ Jack chips in. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a taster now.’ He bounces on his toes. ‘Show me your starting position.’
‘My what?’ she asks.
I laugh and then remember. ‘Wait, why are you here, Jack? Weren’t you seeing your friend?’
He pauses, as if debating something, and then looks back at the court he came from, pointing to a guy wearing a backwards cap and sunglasses, practising his serve. ‘I am. He’s just over there,’ he says, watching me carefully.
I look over and take in his friend; his long lean body twists as he serves, sculpted arms flex as he strikes the ball, and powerful legs propel him up and forward. Impossibly fast, the ball lands in the bottom left corner of the service box, a certain ace. Nice.
He’s tall, surely around 6 foot 4, and even from here I can see he’s tanned, an almost caramel glow I could only dream of, only achieved by those who don’t sit at a desk all day.
I can’t look away and I think I even blush as he lifts the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his brow, flashing a deep V and the kind of abs I’ve read about, but didn’t truly think existed on real men.
I can’t see his face properly, but the sharp lines of his jaw catch the evening sun, curls of dark hair poking out from under his cap.
He looks up to the sky, stretching his broad shoulders back, hands rubbing across the column of his strong neck.
But that’s not why I can’t stop looking. He appears almost feline as he gracefully moves back to the baseline again, lining up to serve. His movements are so precise, so measured. He’s so in control of himself. Recognition flickers, but I don’t know why. Why hasn’t Jack introduced me before?
I catch myself and look around, but it seems I’m not the only one to fall under his spell. Other members are sneaking glances. Some are blatantly staring. Some even have phones out, weird.
And then it clicks. Oh fuck.
I turn to face Jack, disbelief coursing through me.
‘Your childhood friend is George-fucking-Hampden?!’