6. Kate
Chapter Six
Kate
I slipped through the crowd along the outer walkways of Wimbledon, the scent of an earlier rain shower still clinging to the heat in the air.
As a group of women in coordinated linen and heels clacked past me, their heads turned just slightly, I caught a few second glances.
Couldn’t blame them, really. I’d actually made an effort for once, and it showed.
The sky was darkening again, so I picked up the pace.
I was wearing a deep crimson, polka-dot dress that clung in all the right places.
Polished, but not trying too hard. Just enough to get away with the oversized leather jacket slung over my shoulders.
My gold-rimmed Ray-Bans caught the light like a wink of confidence, and my hair had actually cooperated in that wild, wind-tossed way that made me look like I’d stepped out of a very fun wind tunnel.
Not exactly traditional Wimbledon, but it was me.
And honestly, this dress was my secret weapon. Gwen had confirmed it; even the woman next to me in the ticket queue had given me a discreet nod of approval. I’d take it.
I climbed the stairs, sandals clicking against the concrete.
Sliding into my seat, I smoothed the skirt over my knees and tried to look like the kind of woman who regularly got invited to the Friends and Family section of international tennis matches.
Just another day, I told myself. Even as the back of my neck started to sweat under my hair.
A man in the row ahead shifted in his seat, broad shoulders filling the space, baseball cap pulled low, clipboard balanced on his knee.
Definitely Coach. I recognised him from the night before.
He was older than Jordan, probably pushing forty.
The realization made me pause. How old was Jordan, exactly?
I hadn’t even thought to ask. Shit, I’d park that conversation for later.
Coach gave me a polite, assessing nod. I returned it with a small smile, then sank into my seat, letting my sunglasses do the heavy lifting. But my leg had already started bouncing. That was the classic tell. I was nervous. Then the crowd stirred and I looked up.
There he was. Jordan Taylor.
Oh, my days. My heart lurched the moment I saw him. My palms sweated as I gripped the plastic chair tighter, trying to steady myself.
He strolled onto the grass as if he’d been born on it, all calm and coiled.
The kind of quiet confidence only someone with that level talent could carry.
His dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, and his cap worn backwards made him look infuriatingly handsome without even trying.
The sun caught the stubble on his jaw and that damn moustache. Was that…a new kink of mine?
His forearms flexed as he adjusted his grip on his racket. He was all lean muscle, smooth movement, not a scrap of wasted effort. The butterflies in my stomach were frantic at the sight of him.
That fitted polo hugged his back in all the right places. And the shorts? Did absolutely everything except help my blood pressure. He was relaxed, focused, every part of him radiating in a way that said I know what I’m doing, and I know you’re watching.
His eyes scanned the crowd quickly. Then, briefly, they flicked up to my section. Just a second. Just a flash. But it was enough to send a hot, sweeping current through my entire body.
Did he see me?
Oh, God. Pull it together, Kate. I was a grown woman, not a teenager at a Harry Styles concert. And yet, my pulse thudded like I’d sprinted up the stairs to get to my seat.
He stepped to the baseline and started bouncing the ball, his shoulders set. Each shift of weight pulled his shirt tight, thighs flexing, arse filling those shorts like it deserved its own Instagram account.
I looked away. Briefly, just to compose myself.
His coach, Chris, I’d overheard, was stoic in front of me, all quiet presence and arms folded. This was clearly just another match for him. Meanwhile, I was over here making backroom deals with the universe: Let him win. Let him play well. Let him not trip over his laces in front of me.
He served first. Fast, smooth. The kind of shot that made the entire court fall silent for a beat before applause erupted.
My heart leapt.
There was something intimate about watching him like this, completely in his element, completely unselfconscious. I’d always loved the rhythm of Wimbledon, the tension between points, the way players revealed so much in the space between action.
But this was different.
Between rallies, I watched him. The frown when he missed. The boyish grin when he landed a shot just right. His body, his face, it all moved like a finely tuned rhythm. He was electric.
“God, he’s really good,” I muttered before my brain could stop my mouth. Chris huffed out a laugh. I froze.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes still on the court. “Took him a while to believe it.”
I leaned forward, a little mortified. “Sorry…is it okay I’m here? I didn’t mean to intrude…”
He half-turned. “Yeah, course. He just never invites anyone to sit here.” From the sound of his accent, he was Aussie, too.
Knowing the exclusivity of the invite made something in my chest flutter. Chris turned back toward the court and said, almost as an afterthought, “You must be special.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. His words hit harder than expected.
Special? Not me. Not for a long time. Not since my marriage fell apart and I’d taught myself to blend into crowds like this.
I looked down, lips twitching into a shy smile.
When I glanced up again, Jordan was looking right at me.
We locked eyes.
I nodded. Trying to give him a look of confidence and reassurance. I hadn’t even realised I was smiling until I saw him smile back. Just a subtle tug at the corner of his mouth, like we were sharing something no one else could see. And suddenly, I wasn’t invisible anymore.
He won the first set easily. The crowd applauded, and so did I. But my heart? It was thundering. Every time he glanced up, I was there. Every time I smiled, he sharpened. It was almost like I was fuelling him.
By the second set, he was on fire. Loose, confident, leaning into every shot. The crowd was loving it. I was mesmerised. I was completely and utterly blown away.
He won in straight sets. The crowd rose in a flurry of applause. He lifted his fist in a way that was subtle, contained. Not a show-off. And his eyes can straight to me.
I stood, too, caught in the swell of the audience. Then he looked again and lifted his brows slightly, as if to ask, Well? What did you think?
I bit my lip, but smiled before I could stop myself. And just like that, after years of feeling invisible, I was being noticed again. Which was exactly why I was in trouble.