17. Kate
Chapter Seventeen
Kate
I carefully took the narrow steps to my seat, one hand gripping the rail, the other clutching my phone like a lifeline.
The hush of Centre Court buzzed with anticipation.
Low murmurs of conversation, the crisp shuffle of programmes, the faint splash of Pimm’s sloshing in plastic cups as people shuffled their way to their seats.
My stomach wasn’t doing butterflies. There was nothing fluttery about this. This was full-blown, high-stakes, extreme-edition nerves.
Chris spotted me as I slipped into the green, plastic seat behind him.
He gave a polite nod, which was very measured if a little unreadable.
I returned it with a faint smile. We hadn’t been formally introduced, but I think he liked me well enough.
But he was Jordan’s coach first. That line of loyalty was quietly, firmly drawn.
Still, I caught the way his gaze flicked back to the court within seconds, scanning it with that laser focus coaches seemed to be born with.
Though I couldn’t help but wonder if he thought I was a distraction, a hindrance.
I mean, the timing of this whole thing wasn’t exactly ideal for Jordan, I’d admit.
I’d kept it simple today, minimal makeup, hair scraped into a low knot with a few strands loose around my face.
I’d worn a soft floral Réalisation Par dress.
The kind you could wear to lunch in Richmond and disappear in.
I wasn’t here to make a statement. I wasn’t trying to be anyone significant. I was just here for him.
I was trying my best to blend in and not be seen, but the air felt different today. I caught a few sideways glances. One or two heads that turned and others that didn’t turn back quickly enough. And then suddenly—click. The sharp, unmistakable sound of a camera shutter.
Shit.
I tried to keep my gaze forward, spine straight. I adjusted my sunglasses further up my nose, trying to disappear behind them. I pretended not to notice, but my pulse went skittering like the lens had set something off. I could feel the heat blooming at the back of my neck, all hot and shameful.
This was the part I hadn’t thought through.
Being near him meant being near all of…this.
I’d spent the last two days in a bubble.
It felt weird that just being connected to him would make me visible, like public property, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it.
Being known for being his and not for anything that I’d done. I’d worked too hard in life for that.
I swallowed and glanced down at my phone to give my thoughts somewhere else to go. The last message I’d sent him still sat on the screen:
Me
Good luck. I’ll be waiting, whatever happens.
He’d replied within a minute. Just a single red heart.
No words, but somehow that said more than a string of them ever could.
The umpire’s voice cut through the noise.
“Ladies and gentlemen…please welcome Jordan Taylor!”
The crowd erupted. I turned my head, and there he was.
My heart kicked into overdrive.
Jordan walked onto Centre Court like he’d always belonged there.
No cockiness. No arrogance. That wasn’t his style.
Just calm certainty. Hat backwards, as always.
Those stupidly adorable curls peeking out beneath it.
That signature loose-limbed swagger in his shoulders like he was already carrying momentum.
Out here, he looked so different from the man who’d fallen asleep with his face buried in my neck, the one who’d fucked me so hard last night I could barely function this morning.
He turned and scanned the stands, seemingly searching for someone.
When his eyes landed on me…he smiled. Not a polite, practiced smile.
Not the one for the cameras. It was a genuine, unguarded smile, as if he couldn’t help it.
Then he winked. The idiot. My cheeks burned.
I bit my lip, trying not to grin like a complete fool.
Somewhere between Tuesday and now, he’d slipped under my skin. And it was hard to hide every stupid blush, every way my focus narrowed to him.
The warmup started, but I barely saw it. I zeroed my attention on the way his fingers tapped his thigh between serves. The flex in his forearm as he bounced the ball. The way his mouth pressed flat when he was contemplating. Every small thing felt like it was stitched inside of me.
And maybe that was the part that scared me, how easily I’d become attached to him.
I sank back into my seat and exhaled slowly.
Jordan Taylor, Wimbledon semi-finalist, cocky Aussie heartthrob, destroyer of common sense had made me feel more wanted in one night than my ex had in an entire marriage.
God, what the hell was I doing?