Page 82 of Off Court Fix

“And you’re the only guy friend Dave has in all of the Hamptons?” I challenge, the bite of my voice sharp.

Crosby releases one of my arms, pressing his free hand to the shed wall above my head. “I don’t know what to do here, Maxine. I’m... doing my best. I had kind of agreed to this earlier, way before you. And I wanted to take Dave’s boat out tomorrow, so he held this over my head. I told him I was seeing someone.”

My head juts back, tapping the side of the shed.

“That woman comes to town on and off, and her sister—”

“I don’t want to hear about the sister,” I grit.

Crosby softens his gaze, and a light smile comes to his face.

“What?”

“You’re jealous.”

“Of course, I’m jealous. How wouldyoufeel?”

Crosby stares and stays silent for a minute. “The question ishow do I feel, nothow would I feel.”

“What do you mean?”

Crosby leans closer, most of his body against me, and I suck in a breath as his mouth dusts over mine. “Ask me how I feel when all heads turn in a crowded restaurant as you walk by. Or when I see photos of you at these events and all the likes and captions are about your legs. Or, if we’re going eye for an eye, how it felt to see you at the bar in Indian Wells with Brandon Summers wrapping an arm around you and—”

“That’s not the same thing,” I push out, even though I’m finding it hard to do so. “And you know it.”

“You don’t get it,” Crosby says, and now he’s got a leg between mine, and I’m tempted to clench it with my thighs that start to shake. “It’s the same shit, different day. But those things don’t just make me jealous.”

“What are you then?”

“Livid.”

The anger, even behind Crosby’s whisper, matches the meaning of the word, and he slides his hand up my chest to my neck. He rubs his thumb in smooth circles over my raging pulse that’s pumping all sorts of feelings through my veins. There’s jealousy and frustration, anger and so much desire for him and for more, and I’m dizzied and drunk off it.

Crosby tilts my head up. “What I would give tobrandyou...” He expels a heavy breath nearly right into my mouth before he presses a small kiss to my jaw. “To let the world know you belong to somebody. I think about it constantly.”

Voices of valets and customers float in from the path, but I don’t care because Crosby’s mouth has moved to my neck, his lips opening, tongue tasting, teeth nipping.

“I want to leave a mark.” The tip of his nose scratches against the dainty chain of the necklace he gave me before Wimbledon, which I’ve yet to take off.

“You already know I’m yours,” I whisper, and that draws some sort of primal growl from Crosby’s chest that hammers into mine. Skimming a hand between us, I reach up to tug lightly at the necklace. I can feel the crack of my voice as it makes its way up my throat. “This has to be enough for now.”

My words break through the lusty, handsy cloud between us, and we both still. I clutch the back of his neck, and I try to savor the feel of his soft hair on my fingertips, the smell of his skin. As much as I want to walk back into the restaurant hand in hand, I have to remind myself to hold onto these moments because they’re better than nothing, than not having him at all.

If I know what we have, if he knows what we have, I can’t ask for more than that, no matter how much I want it. Because more might mean less of us and more of everything else I don’t want right now at this point in my life—more of my narrative not involving tennis.

Slowly, Crosby pulls back, and my hand falls from his neck. I straighten, clutching my purse. That’s when I hear the shift of the tube of lipstick as it falls to the other side of the bag.

I clear my throat. “You have something on me already,” I tell him, holding up my bag and opening it. “But I have nothing on you.”

“I’m not much of a jewelry guy.” He scratches the back of his head when I produce the lipstick. “And while that suits youverywell, I’m not sure it’s really much of my color.”

I uncap the lipstick and twist the bottom before bringing it to my mouth and pressing it to my lips carefully, and then I close it. Crosby continues to watch curiously as I place my hand on his chest, dusting my fingers through the hair peeking through the opening of his button-down shirt.

“What are you...” Crosby’s question is swallowed by the sharp breath he takes when I pull the collar of his shirt down and press my lips to the base of his neck, just above his collarbone.

I smile against his warm skin and pull back. “There,” I say, returning the white shirt to barely cover the stain my lips left on his neck.

It’s deep down enough not to be totally noticeable but enough that if someone were looking, they’d find Crosby was spoken for—and he’d get a taste of his own medicine.

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