CHAPTER 15
Leo
Feeling slightly more positive after our progress this morning, I spend the day doing what I do best – organizing a kick-ass itinerary and bespoke Paris guide that will impress even the surliest of members.
I’ve made sure not to overdo it, only providing some options for a few things around the schedule he forwarded me from Gordon, ensuring he does have some time to rest. Private after-hours access to some of my favourite classic art collections, recommendations of under-the-radar but fantastic neighbourhood restaurants, where to get the best cryotherapy .
. . I’ve even offered him the chance to visit a secret car collection, right under us at Place Vend?me, usually open to members only.
But he was right. He’ll barely be here. His training plan is intense: gym sessions twice a day, two practice sessions with his hitting team, physio .
. . That’s not even counting the other obligations he has to his sponsors and the ATP itself.
I can’t imagine how much he hates the social media side.
I giggle to myself as I think of the glare he gave the poor content creator in Rome who asked him if pineapple on pizza was a crime.
OK, perhaps I’ve also spent some of the day on TikTok. And most of that time catching up on videos I’ve missed in my mission to ignore everything George Hampden-related.
My brain needed a break from struggling to comprehend how I’m here. Not only in Paris, but staying in the same room as tennis’s number one heartthrob. Sharing a space with a man I have hated for almost a year.
It’s a lot. I need to get away from him for a bit.
Although, George wasn’t that bad this morning. He was almost . . . normal. Dare I say it, even charming?
And his insistence that I be upgraded, that I have a comfortable place to stay, his handling of the situation. It was kind of hot. As much as I’m a control freak, it’s nice to be looked after once in a while. And maybe he actually does care about his team. About something other than himself. Odd.
I’ve been in this room with my thoughts too long.
Although what a room it is.
I stretch out and take a few steps around the suite, taking it in properly now I’m alone and my work is done. It’s so beautiful, I could weep. I never thought I’d stay here, let alone in a room like this. It’s a dream come true.
I move to the window and people watch for a while. The view is spectacular over one of Paris’s most beautiful squares, dotted with fine jewellers and perfectly chic Parisians. It’s worth staying just for this.
I’m itching for some movement though, especially after the train this morning and from sitting for most of the day.
I wish I could play tennis. I optimistically packed my racket, but now I’m here I’m not sure where or even who I’d play with.
Maybe if I try to make friends with some of George’s team I can ask them.
For now, I decide on a walk. It’s later than I realized, but I should make it to the Alexandre III bridge for sunset. Maybe even stick around to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle. Beautiful.
Distracted, checking I have my key and wanting to get there in time, I hurry out. But, rushing through the door, I’m stopped abruptly as I smack straight into a wall.
‘What the fuck?’ I look up, confused.
Oh, not a wall. A chest. A male chest. An indecently sculpted male chest belonging to the very man I’m trying to avoid.
‘Good evening, Leo.’ His eyes are amused, his rumbling voice deep. ‘Late for anything in particular?’
‘Sorry, Mr Hampden—’
‘George.’
‘Sorry, George. I was just heading out to get some air.’
I know I’m technically off the clock, but still. ‘If that’s OK with you, of course? Do you need me to help with anything?’
He’s quiet for a moment, contemplating. I push down my irritation, plastering a bland smile on my face. He’s making me late.
‘Sounds good,’ he finally says, and I make to walk past him. ‘I’ll come with you if you don’t mind?’
I freeze. Right.
——
Life is surreal. I can’t quite believe that just four days ago, I went to work, expecting a normal day.
A day where Cece was pontificating on his favourite subject, the pros of a ‘decent’ Land Rover versus the new Porsche for carting his Labradors to the Cotswolds.
Where I was in the middle of forecasting this year’s budget for our upcoming events.
Where the most exciting part of my day was stepping out onto the court and taking a deep breath.
I’d still take that last one, to be honest. I miss it.
Yet here I am. In Paris. Walking the streets of the most romantic city in the world. At sunset. A jazz quartet are playing on the corner, accordion and all. People are spilling out of cafes, laughing, drinking, taking advantage of the late May sun. It’s like I’ve stepped into a dream.
Oh, and George Hampden is here.
He towers above me as we walk side by side. I’m surprised he hasn’t complained once about slowing his usual pace. I hate feeling like I’m scurrying along next to someone with longer legs than me. Which is most people. But he seems happy for a leisurely stroll.
‘So, George, how was your day?’ I venture, needing to break the relative silence since we left. He was surprisingly talkative during our welcome meeting.
‘Fine.’
OK. Not chatty now. This will be fun. ‘Anything interesting in your practice?’
‘Not really.’ He keeps looking ahead as we walk. His jaw is set, his face tight. But his expression is hidden behind a cap and sunglasses.
‘Is everything OK?’ I try again.
‘Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?’ He turns to me now. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ This is horribly awkward. The easy conversation of earlier a distant memory. My idyllic Paris walk losing its lustre.
We reach the bridge and I gesture for us to walk across, stopping about halfway.
The low sun is glinting off the golden accents adorning the statues and embellishments.
It really is breathtakingly beautiful, especially with the river glittering below, flanked by the Parisian skyline.
A work of art. I inhale deeply, taking it in, and sneak a glance to my left.
To George. Another masterpiece. As exquisite and cold as the decorative figures on this bridge.
‘Wow.’ His voice rumbles beside me. He’s leaning over, looking down into the water. ‘I didn’t know this was so close to us.’
‘Do you not know Paris well?’ I ask. ‘You must come a lot for the tournaments?’
‘You’d be surprised how little I get out when I’m here. I don’t really venture further than the hotel, the arenas. The odd godawful dinner or event Gordon drags me to . . .’
Interesting. I brave my next question. ‘You don’t like that side of it?’
‘I hate it,’ he says immediately. ‘It’s not my scene. I’m . . .’ He pauses, considering. ‘Not good with people. Conversations. Speaking about nothing.’ He looks at me with a wry smile. ‘Apparently I have a bit of a reputation for it . . .’
Just a bit. I continue though. ‘You were OK earlier with me?’
He shrugs, turning back to the river. The sky is ablaze as the sun dips lower on the horizon.
We don’t have long before it disappears fully, and I watch for a while, considering George’s surprising confession.
You would think a man with so much privilege wouldn’t struggle with confidence.
He has everything going for him: looks, wealth, talent . . . more so than me.
An idea strikes.
‘Why don’t we practise?’
He turns back. ‘Sorry?’ I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but I can feel his confusion. ‘Practise?’
‘Yes! Use me.’
His eyebrows raise and I blush at the unintended innuendo.
‘For conversation practice! So, when you go to your fancy events, you don’t come across as such an arseho—’ I stop myself but it’s too late.
‘Did you just call me an arsehole, Miss James?’ His face is stern. He removes his glasses and looks straight at me, eyes hard.
Shit. I turn away, embarrassed at my slip of the tongue. ‘George. I—’
‘As I believe I’ve asked you before,’ he cuts me off. ‘Are you always this rude to your members?’
I look up to see he’s holding back a grin. It makes me giggle. Phew.
‘No. Just you.’ I grin back. ‘So shall we start?’ I wave to the almost setting sun. ‘Tell me about this view? Is it not the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?’
He looks to the sunset and back at me, his eyes lingering on my face. ‘Yes. It is.’
My stomach flips at the intensity in his gaze. But I know it’s just me. Just me getting carried away with the stupid crush I had years ago. I shake the thought away as I push him. ‘And . . .’
‘And what?’ He looks confused.
‘You can’t just say “yes” to everything. Ask me something back.’
‘What would you like me to ask about, Leo?’
He’s infuriating.
But the small smile teasing his lips is playful. It’s sexy. Annoyingly so. ‘Anything!’
‘OK.’ He thinks. ‘Why do you love tennis?’
‘There you go! That’s a good question. Well done.’ I pretend to clap and he smiles for real. It transforms his face, his eyes lighting up. It’s almost too much.
I regain my composure as he asks, ‘So . . . are you going to answer?’ He shakes his head, mock disappointment crossing his face. ‘And here I thought you were teaching me . . .’
I resist punching his arm. I’d probably break my hand. ‘I am perfectly capable of conversing, thank you.’
‘Well, then. I’ll ask again. Why do you love tennis, Leo?’
‘It’s difficult to put into words.’ I think for a second and he doesn’t push.
Just watches me, waiting. ‘It’s so much more than just a love for the sport.
It’s my outlet, my happy place, the unfaltering constant when everything else is too much.
I can have the worst day and I’ll head straight out.
My phone goes away, my mind quietens and I’ll sweat it all out on the court.
Everything is better. And I love watching too, learning all the time.
So many new exciting players. And honestly, the excitement is so intense .
. . my heart rate when you were a set up in your first French Open final—’
‘You have watched me play a bit then?’
I blush furiously. ‘Well of course, George.’
‘And do you think I’m good?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You don’t need me to tell you you’re good. You’re Britain’s number one.’
‘Still no Wimbledon though.’ He frowns, looking away towards the last slivers of sun. I realize it’s suddenly much darker. He seems to notice too. ‘Shall we head back?’
I nod and we walk quietly as we make our way along the river. I can tell he’s in his head and I don’t push until we cross the road, reaching the Place de la Concorde.
‘Why do you love it, George?’
He stops, pausing at one of the fountains, before perching on the edge.
He gestures for me to join him and starts speaking as I sit down.
‘I started out much the same as you. It’s my happy place too.
It feels natural to me to have a racket in hand.
Tossing a ball into the air. My body feels like I was built to play.
’ He looks at me. ‘You’re right too. It’s the best outlet for emotion. ’
George Hampden, emotional? He’s devoid of emotion, no?
I tease him slightly, knocking my knee against his. ‘All that moodiness has to go somewhere I guess?’
He laughs drily. ‘Indeed.’ He looks around. ‘You’ll be tossing your phone into this fountain after a few weeks with me.’
I spin around fully, incredulous. ‘Did you just make a Devil Wears Prada reference?!’
‘What? No.’ He bites down on a smile, shaking his head. ‘Never heard of it . . .’ He rises to his feet offering his hand. ‘Come on, Leo. Let’s go.’ I take it, as he grins finally. ‘You know, it’s nice to be in Paris and actually see Paris . . .’
I laugh. ‘Secret romcom fan, eh?’ I stretch up, pointing to his temple. ‘What else are you hiding in there, George?’