Page 31 of Off Court Fix

“I do have a parking space here,” I remind her. “I’d appreciate if you respect that.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “You want to talk aboutrespect?”

Truth be told, I like that she’s getting heated. I like the zip and the zap, the way her nose crinkles adorably in annoyance as I push her buttons and test the boundaries. I like that I see and hear this side of Maxine the Silent Slayer—the loud side who bares her teeth.

“No. I just want totalk,” I admit in a moment of brutal honesty.

I wonder if I held prime real estate in Maxine’s mind the way she did mine before everything went to shit when I took the chair on her court that day. I step closer and wonder, when it was all said and done, if she didn’t want to leave everything between us in the car that night.

I’m looking for that answer myself, wondering why, at forty-three years old, I’m standing in pretty good shape—still holding onto all my own hair—wanting to know the flavor of Maxine Draper, the younger, quiet, bold beauty with the killer backhand and legs for days. I want to know if she sleeps on her back or stomach, her favorite flower, if she favors chocolate over vanilla.

But I know enough of that even though my lips haven’t met hers. She tastes forbidden, and it’s decadent and addictive, and everything I—we—should walk away from.

When Maxine’s eyes dart around the near vacant pool, flashing with concern that someone might hear, might see, I take a gander that maybe the allure for me isn’t just her tan, taught, smooth skin and higheverything. Maybe it’s not the freckles littering her nose that I’ve only now noticed or the fact that I know what her pulse feels like beating against my cock.

Maybe the appeal is founded in these small glances, looking around wondering if someone is watching, if anyone does a double take. Because us together—inside out, ass to lap, side by side, whatever—crosses an ethical line that would leave me just another guy watching a tennis match, and her... it would leave people seeing her differently, too, like she’s just a woman who sleeps around to get what she wants. Like she would do anything to win.

How do I know this? Because if I didn’t know Maxine, if I wasn’t there myself, I’d probably think the same thing. What other people don’t know is I’m the one who really sleeps around to get what I want, only what I usually want is just to sleep around.

And now, I suddenly want thatmore, but only with Maxine.

“Talk?” she asks, her doe eyes now rounding, like she can’t quite figure me out.

I shuffle my feet, my loafers sticking to the warm pavement. “We did talk. A lot. That night.” I do a quick glance around before dipping closer to whisper, “And I kind of liked it. Talking to you. You’re... there’s just something about you.”

She purses her lips in thought for a moment before speaking. “Is this where you tell me I’m not like other girls?”

My tongue stabs my cheek because I don’t use pickup lines—let alone ones so cheesy.

With the towel still secured, Maxine takes one step closer, and I swear, beneath the whiff of sunscreen and chlorine, I find the slightest hint of flowers, and now I know for sure she wasn’t wearing perfume that night. It was her essence—light, floral, and crisp—and damn... I want to drown in it.

“You’re right, I’m not.” The edge of her mouth curves up into a coy smile so delicious I’m eager to take a bite right out of it, and the pull is so strong I’m wondering if that lifeguard might have to perform CPR on me when I collapse from some sort of hypnosis-induced cardiac arrest.

Maxine tilts her head playfully. “Because I know what I want for dinner.Always, Crosby. Even before I’ve had lunch.”

I’m relieved I don’t collapse and instead erupt into a fit of laughter that I rein in quickly, stomaching the noise.

Gripping the umbrella stand, I lean over to close more distance. It would be easy to think that the muscle memory from that night in my car, the way I know how her athletic body feels like slick stone on the outside but flaming,heavenly,molten lava within, is the reason I ask what I’m about to ask.

Really, it’s because Maxine smells like summer and has me feeling as young as a teenager just let out of school for a long vacation—excited and reckless. I’m ready to break some rules, prepared to get into some trouble. But like she told me before, it’shercourt. I know whatever ball I hit her way, she’s going to dictate the point—she has to because there’s more at stake for her than me.

I take a deep breath and lob it, leaving it for her to decide how to play the point.

“Then tell me, Maxine. What do you want for dinner tonight?”

And because she is who she is, the Silent Slayer comes out in all her glory, and she shakes her head, muttering quietly beneath her breath as she walks away. “Sushi,” she says before loudly adding, “forone.”

“I was talking with Dave,”my father begins, pushing away his now empty plate. “Thought it might be nice to give back a little to this place.”

“Give back?”

Dad sets his napkin on the table. “They have a gala here toward the end of summer with an auction for charity. I was thinking we’d put a tennis lesson with you on the table. Charity optics are good optics. What do you think?”

I look at the remnants of my lunch—the crust from my club sandwich—and sigh. I’m having a hard time thinking today, and something that isn’t so fun about hitting at a beach club during high summer is there’s always an audience. I find myself regretting my decision to take up camp and train here for Wimbledon. Part of it is that I feel a bit like a caged animal putting on a show, and even though I originally sought out to prove a point to Crosby, I hate that he’s part of the audience, either from his office or walking around the path framing the courts.

But Wimbledon is nearing. I’ll have no reason—apart from the exorbitant amount of money I put up to join this place—to continue frequenting here.

“Maxine?”

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