Chapter 17
JASMINE WOKE TO THE SOFT VIbrATION OF HER PHONE AGAINST the nightstand.
A lump at the center of the bed opposite her shifted.
The mattress beneath the lump gave a short squeak as Indy moved around and then settled again, blond hair peeking out from beneath the covers.
Jasmine carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed and tiptoed to the dresser she’d claimed, then pulled out some training clothes.
She changed quickly before grabbing her racket bag and silently leaving the room, closing the door behind her as gently as she could.
Movement at the other end of the hallway drew her attention, and she nodded to Paolo, who was leaving his own room, yawning and running his fingers through his impressive bedhead.
He wore just a pair of low-slung boxer briefs, the tight V of muscles at his core pointing down past the elastic waistband and leaving very little to the imagination.
His chest was lined with dark curly hair, blending well with his olive skin.
Jasmine actually felt her mouth water at the view he was presenting to her.
“You’re up early,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve been out of that bed before noon this whole time.”
“The only practice session I could schedule today was very, very early,” he said. “Too early.” His eyes were still unfocused and he was using the doorframe for support.
“What time?”
“Half seven.”
Jasmine grimaced. “Um… that’s right now.”
“Merda,” he grumbled. Her mind flickered back to the other night when she’d been giving off signals to Natalie that she hadn’t meant at all, and inspiration struck like lightning.
“You could come train with me,” she offered before she could stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth.
Things had been awkward between them for a couple of days.
He’d left her alone with Teddy, and by the time she’d entered the house, he’d been upstairs behind a very firmly shut bedroom door.
With only two options remaining—retreat to her own room or work up the courage to just charge into his bedroom—Jasmine had chosen the first.
Then the tournament had gotten in the way, him still at Wimbledon, her preparing for Crystal Palace, their schedules on opposite ends of the clock; she’d barely caught a glimpse of him in three days.
Except she wanted him to know she really liked him and that she’d just been overwhelmed and nervous and hadn’t known how to explain why.
“If you don’t want to, I’d understand, but I have a practice session in an hour and if you need… ”
“Sounds good,” he said, falling back away from the door and closing it behind him, presumably to get dressed.
“So glad I could help,” she said to the large oak barrier, and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
She was sitting on the steps of the townhouse, waiting for the car to pull around, when he came out the door. He set his racket bag down and took a seat beside her.
“Sorry,” he said, bumping her shoulder with his. “I am a grouch in the mornings before I’ve had coffee.”
“It’s fine,” she said, taking a deep breath and steeling herself. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Perché?”
“For the other night, for not… I wanted to, but I…” She trailed off, shifting toward him, ducking her head to try to meet his eye, but he was staring out onto the street.
“There is nothing for you to explain.” He said it so simply. No drama, no fuss. Except that she did need to explain herself, desperately. She wanted him to understand what was going on in her head. The only problem was, she didn’t really understand it herself.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to,” she began anyway. “It’s that I’ve never… it’s not… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
Paolo finally turned and looked at her, their knees bumping, the rough hairs on his calf tickling against the smooth skin of hers.
He took her hand. “I mean what I say. You have nothing to explain. We can go as fast or as slow as you like or not at all,” he said, dropping her hand, letting it land on his knee, but his knuckles brushing against hers.
“It is perhaps a little cliché, but the ball is in your court.”
“I think,” she said, putting her own hand over his, “I think slow.”
“Slow it is, then,” he said, lifting their joined hands to his lips, and after he placed a soft kiss there, she ran her fingertips over his mouth, trailing over to the side of his face before leaning in slowly and brushing her lips against his.
His hand mimicked hers, cupping her cheek, and with a soft pressure against her jaw, drew her closer, deepening the kiss that she’d initiated.
Her mouth opened as his tongue flicked out against her bottom lip.
His mouth lined up against hers, soft, but hot and wet.
A real kiss, a kiss that could lead to something more if they weren’t sitting outside where anyone could see.
Except when his hand fell to her hip, squeezed lightly, and then drew her closer, the brick of the steps scraping against the skin of her lower thighs a little, she realized she didn’t care who saw.
She just wanted to feel him everywhere, all at once.
Her hands slid up the back of his neck and into his hair, the soft dark curls twining around her fingers, and it gave her a little leverage as she pressed up onto her knees, the brick biting into the skin there, but she ignored it.
His grip tightened with each stroke of her tongue.
He pulled back to breathe, their chests heaving. “This is slow?” he asked.
Still trying to catch her breath, she balanced against his shoulders. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Maybe not, my English isn’t so good sometimes.”
Jasmine smiled and rested her forehead against his.
“Ah, that smile,” he said. “I will kiss you every day just like this to see you smile like that.”
Her smile grew and it felt damn good. She hadn’t smiled like that in a long time, maybe ever. Was this what it felt like when someone wanted you just for being you?
The whirr of a car engine broke them apart.
She looked down the street at the approaching black town car, the one that had driven them back and forth to Wimbledon for the last few days.
Ahmed pulled to a stop in front of the house and popped out of the car.
“Just the two of you this morning?” he asked, raising a dark eyebrow at them.
Jasmine felt her cheeks grow warm as she realized they were still basically wrapped around each other. “Just us,” she said, liking that, very much. She’d like to be an us with Paolo.
The grounds at Wimbledon were mostly empty, but the streets outside weren’t.
A queue formed nearly every night for the tickets sold the next morning.
As the car drove past the masses, Jasmine saw security attendants making their way down the line to wake up those who’d fallen asleep during their overnight wait.
Jasmine and Paolo gathered their things and went straight to the practice court. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she checked it quickly. There was a text from Dom.
Prepping Penny for match. Will be late. Can call Sam Grogan, have Natalie practice with you?
Jasmine’s thumbs flew over her screen.
Got practice covered. Don’t worry.
She looked up and Paolo was stretching out.
The air around them was heavy and humid, the gray clouds light and high, making for an overcast morning.
But in the distance, dark skies were approaching, a sure sign that rain was on its way.
Wimbledon was steeped in tradition, so many famous players had graced its courts over the years, but the thing it was perhaps most famous for was the nearly constant rain delays that would send the tournament schedulers to an early grave.
Later on, it wasn’t so bad, but early in the first week, with so many players still in the hunt, one morning of rain could turn the rest of the fortnight into a logistical nightmare.
“What do you need to get in?” she asked, sitting beside him in the center of the court, stretching out as well.
“Footwork,” he said, twisting his body back and forth before kicking his legs out and bending over them, pulling his chest to his knees. “I want to get my feet under me before my match tonight.”
“Backhands for me,” she said.
“Why backhands? They give you trouble?”
“Always, for as long as I can remember.” She grimaced, remembering years of experimenting, desperate to find a solution that could fix the glaring weakness but never getting it right.
“You hit it two-handed, yes?” Paolo asked.
“Yeah. I need the extra stability from my right hand, the extra strength, too.”
“Let me see,” he said, pushing up to his feet and grabbing his racket. “What do you usually do?”
“Just drills, moving across the court and then from the center, varying how far I have to go.”
He jogged across the court and grabbed a basket of balls, rolling it with him to the other side of the net.
She started her drills, keeping her footwork solid and sending backhands over the net just as she always did.
She stayed focused on ball after ball traveling over the net, so when they suddenly stopped, she snapped her eyes to Paolo and waited for an explanation, but he was already headed toward her, shaking his head.
“Everything you do with that backhand is perfect,” he said. “Assolutamente perfetto.”
“Okay, I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“Yes,” he said, standing in front of her. “They are terrible and you will be eaten alive by your opponents.”
“Thanks.”
“Come here, we will fix it,” he said, crooking a finger at her.
“Paolo, I’ve been working on this backhand my entire career. It is what it is.”
“You have never done it one-handed?”
“Years ago. I told you, I need—”