Page 116 of Ace My Heart

“Wow, you look … incredible,” Joel said, his eyes roving over my body before meeting mine. I couldn’t hold his gaze; I felt suddenly shy. I looked down at the sexy green dress I was wearing, with a very rare pair of heels.

“We’d better get going or we’ll be late,” I muttered.

Joel took a deep breath. I sneaked a glance up at him from under my lashes. He was wearing a pale grey pinstripe suit with a teal green shirt underneath, open at the collar. Why was it that we always seemed to unintentionally match when we went out? Normally I would have made some smart-arse comment about it, but the words just dried up in my throat. In some stupid way I kind of liked it that we were colour coordinated.

I walked to the door and stopped to wait for him. He approached, then paused, facing me. He was just too close, it was intoxicating. Why was I unable to resist feeling aroused when I was near him? If anything, having sex with him had made those feelings more intense.

He made no move to open the door. Neither did I.

Seconds inched by.

Eventually I took a deep breath and turned the handle. I walked out, feeling his eyes on me the whole way down the hallway.

Then we were in the limo that the WTA had sent for their ‘guest of honour’. It was the longest ride of my life. It felt like there was a live wire running between Joel and me. His hand was resting on the seat between us, as was mine, less than an inch separating them. I was gritting my teeth, resisting the almost irresistible urge to weave my fingers through his and hold on tight.

Don’t be so stupid, Mel, I told myself firmly.It was just sex. It’s out of your system now and soon enough these feelings will go away. There’s nothing else going on here. Just sex.

Joel helped me out of the limo at the other end. Wherever hishand touched my skin felt hot to the point of burning. I was immediately hustled away by media for photos with Heather, and unfortunately, Pete and his opponent, Donatello Herrera.

Joel was left behind, and he watched me with a faraway smile as I was carried away by the tide of journalists.

“You look like you’ve been enjoying yourself this afternoon,” Pete commented quietly as we posed for the cameras. I gritted my teeth through the fake smile I was forcing. Donatello was on my other side, smiling vaguely at the camera.

“You have no right to comment on how I look, Pete Levine!” I hissed, then proceeded to ignore him until the photographers released us.

I caught Joel eyeing me from the bar. He noticed me looking and winked, toasting me with the beer in his hand. I wanted to go and drink with him, but I wasn’t sure I could handle being that close to him right now.

“Hey, Mel, wanna dance?” Clayton Banks asked behind me. I turned and grinned at him.

“Sure, why not? We haven’t caught up in ages!” I commented as Clayton led me onto the dance floor. “Congrats on making it to the semis.”

Clayton beamed at me. “Come on, Mel, don’t congratulateme– you’re the Wimbledon champ here! When we get back home, they’ll probably have forgotten my name!”

I giggled. “I don’t think so, Clay. You have a penis, remember? You’re instantly more interesting to sports journalists.”

Clay barked out a laugh at that. “Don’t forget I’m the only openly gay Australian tennis player with a penis.”

I sneaked a look out of the corner of my eye. Joel was standing at the bar, watching me over the top of his beer. I dragged my eyes away from him, turning back to Clayton with a smile. He’d seen where my eyes had taken me and he smirked knowingly.

“Mixing business with pleasure, Mel?” he murmured.

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but my blush gave me away. “No idea what you’re talking about, Clay.”

He snickered at me. “No judgement. I’ve known Joel Herbert for a long time – his family and mine go way back – he’s a really decent guy. Smart. Hot as fuck.” I caught Clayton watching Joel in a more than friendly way.

I smacked playfully at his arm. “He’sstraight, Clayton Banks!” I hissed.

Clay grinned at me. “Hey, it’s a free world, I’ll look all I want thanks.”

After my dance with Clayton, the evening passed in a blur for me. A blur of flashing cameras, cocktails, polite conversation with players and coaches and media, cocktails, tipsy small talk with some of the female players, more cocktails. And yet at no time through the whole night did I lose sight of where Joel was.

It was as if all my senses were suddenly tuned in to his frequency. If he talked to another woman, I felt it like the stab of a hot knife. If I happened to be talking to a guy when I caught him glancing back in my direction, I made sure to smile brightly and laugh, as if whoever I was talking to had just made the funniest joke. I think a lot of men that night decided that I was a little nuts. I sort of decided I was too.

I was sipping at my third Tequila Sunrise when his voice was in my ear.

“Okay, I’ve had a fun night playing games with you, Mel, but now I want to take you home.” I heard the suggestion in his tone and my insides burst into flames. I tried desperately to keep my cool.

“Alright, Joel,” I didn’t like the way my heart skipped a beat when I said his name, although I was pretty sure it was just because I knew exactly what would happen when he ‘took me home’.

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