8. Jordan
Chapter Eight
Jordan
This place was a favourite of mine, so it only felt right to bring her here.
It was cosy inside. Low-lit, warm, tucked away from the noise of the city.
One of those family-run Italian places with wax-dripped bottles, hand-painted murals, and old black-and-white photos on every wall.
Traditional and not flashy, which, if I was guessing right, suited her down to the ground.
I’d worried she might expect something glitzy.
But this? Candlelight, overpowering garlic, the scent of red wine hanging in the air? Yeah. This felt right.
Except I was nervous as hell.
Hadn’t taken anyone out on a proper date in…Christ, I couldn’t even remember when.
The last couple of years had been all about rehab, training, eating right, early nights. Rinse and repeat. I told myself I didn’t have the time or the interest in dating. Truth was, I didn’t have the patience, either.
I’d done the casual thing; dinners, hookups, the sort of surface-level crap you forget about before you even get home.
I’d had a couple of girlfriends too. Each time I went all in because that’s how I’m wired, and each time I walked away feeling emptier than before.
That’s the thing; when you’re an all-or-nothing guy, nothing sounds a hell of a lot safer.
So, I kept my head down. Focused on the game.
But now she was here, smiling at something I’d said as she walked a step ahead of me.
And for the first time in years, tennis wasn’t the only thing on my mind.
Dating suddenly didn’t feel like a risk.
Something about Kate felt like maybe, just maybe, I wanted to hand someone my whole heart again, and wasn’t terrified they’d drop it.
I pushed the door open, and without thinking, my hand almost reached for the small of her back.
Almost. I caught myself just in time, pulling back like I’d touched something hot.
Easy, mate. Jesus. There was just…something about her that made me want to stake a silent claim.
Maybe it was the way heads turned when she walked in, how their gazes lingered on her.
Except she didn’t seem to notice, or care for that matter.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and followed the scent of her through the door. She didn’t need guiding, anyway.
The waitress led us to a corner table, mostly hidden from view, and I slid into the seat across from her.
Then she shrugged off that bloody jacket.
Tossed it over her chair like it was nothing, hair tumbling loose as she swept it to one side.
I tried not to look at her boobs as she did it, but quickly failed.
Christ. I breathed just to remind myself I was a professional athlete working on a professional week.
She caught my eye, clearly clocking the whole thing, and smirked.
If we’d been anywhere but here, I’d have found an excuse to see if that smirk tasted as good as it looked.
“You bring all your Wimbledon girls here?” she asked.
I laughed inwardly, shaking my head. “Nah. This is strictly a one-woman-only pasta celebration.”
She raised a brow like she didn’t buy a word of it. “You sure you’re supposed to be out with mystery blondes during Wimbledon week? Doesn’t sound like part of a strict performance regime for a man such as yourself.”
“As long as I don’t eat too much bread, stick to water, and I’m in bed by nine, the coach will allow it.” I winked.
Her smile spread wider, eyes glittering. The sarcasm that was on her face fading.
Jesus, I was already unravelling for this girl.
We ordered pasta and a small glass of wine for her, while I got something boring and healthy for me with water only. She didn’t push or tease me about the athlete stuff. Just nodded like she got it.
And then the conversation started…and didn’t stop.
It started out as small talk. Tennis, her job, the madness of London, her softer Welsh accent that caught me off guard.
But the conversation didn’t stay small. She asked me real, proper questions—and then she listened.
Not the polite nod-along listening. Her eyes stayed on mine steadily, like she could cut through the charm and see the bloke underneath.
She was funny, too. Wickedly funny.
“I mean, fair play, Anderson’s serve was solid,” she said, twirling her fork. “But did you notice his weird foot tap every time he felt under pressure?”
I blinked. “His what?”
“Tiny little double tap with his left foot,” she said like it was obvious. “Like a tell. I started spotting it in the second set.”
I just stared at her. “You’re kidding. I’ve played him a dozen times. Never clocked that.”
She smiled, soft and smug at once. “Mmm. People always give themselves away. You just have to know where to look.”
Bloody hell. That got me.
I leaned back, studying her, something slowly unfurling inside me. Not just the attraction, though that was undeniable, but there was also curiosity. She shrugged like it was nothing, but she knew she’d hooked me.
I grinned. “Go on then, what’d you notice about me?”
She raised her wineglass to her lips, peeking at me over the rim with that knowing little smile.
“You play better when you’ve got fire in you. But you’re not a fiery person. You’re quite hard on yourself. Fiercely. But you hide it under that laid-back charm, which works…mostly.” Her voice softened, eyes still locked on mine. “But then you looked at me in the stands…”
She set the glass down gently.
“…and you relaxed. Like maybe you didn’t feel so alone out there.”
Fuck. I couldn’t speak even if I tried. Then she added with a mischievous glint, “Also, your left eyebrow twitches when you’re about to hit a drop shot. Bit of a giveaway, love.” I burst out laughing and dragged a hand over my face. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?” she teased.
“You’re terrifying.”
She grinned. “So you’ve said. Occupational hazard. Sorry.”
God help me, I wanted to see what else she could do with that kind of focus.
I looked at her then, properly. Dr Kate Ashford, sitting across from me in a soft, red dress, had no clue how stunning she looked when she was completely in her element.
I didn’t want the night to end. Not yet. Not for a long time. Because I’d never met a woman this clever, who made me feel this seen, this undone. And I was already wondering how the hell I was supposed to let her go after dinner.