Page 33 of Risky Match
Through the cracked door, I hear rustling papers and the click of laptop keys.
I lay perfectly still with only my head above the bubbles. Thank goodness I had the bath ready. Worst case, he finds me soaking in his tub. That’s totally normal, right?
His footsteps echo across the hardwood floor. They stop. But I don’t hear the door close.
Suddenly, the hinges squeak on the bathroom door, and Blake shouts, “Wow!”
I lurch forward, instinctively covering my bare chest. Blake stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but tight black boxer briefs that leave little to the imagination—and are quickly revealing even more.
“What are you doing here?” I screech.
He smirks, eyeing me with a familiar, but unexpected, hunger. A shiver runs down my spine. It’s killing me that we can’t have another night together. If he’s innocent, I’m going to regret this missed opportunity. He knew exactly how to make my body hum.
I blink. He’s saying something. “What did you say?”
“Umm. If I remember correctly, this is my room.”
“Yes, but you were practicing. You said I could use the bathtub. I thought I’d be finished before you returned.”
“I can help youfinishif you’re having trouble,” he says, eyebrows dancing.
“Very funny. You know what I mean. Don’t be an arse. Why aren’t you on the court?”
“Rain cut my practice short. A warm bath sounds amazing. Would you like company?”
“Not this time. Besides, I’ve been in here too long. The water’s already cool. Please give me a little privacy so I can dry off. And no, you’re not helping with that either.” I smirk.
“That’s too bad. But I have one question before I go.”
“What’s that?”
“Why are you wearing gloves?”
I stare at my hands, stunned. How did I forget to ditch the gloves?
“It’s to protect my hands from chapping,” I say, not missing a beat. “I love soaking, but I can’t mess up my tennis grip.”
“Interesting. I’ve never heard of that being a problem before.”
“Trust me. It is. Now, a little privacy.”
“Okay. Okay,” he says, backing out.
Once alone, I bury my face in my still-gloved hands, letting my heartbeat settle.
My excuse about the gloves was lame, but every tennis player has at least one eccentric habit. Hopefully, he bought it.
Now the bigger problem—wet clothes and no robe.
Climbing out of the tub, I peel off my soaked clothes and hide them in a towel. I wrap another towel around me, retrieve the hidden items from the trash, and pack everything into my cosmetics bag.
Clutching my belongings and channeling confidence, I stroll out of the bathroom. With a tone of cheery nonchalance, I say, “Thanks for letting me borrow your tub. It’s all yours now.”
I freeze. Oh no!
Blake is standing between me and his bedroom door, eyes blazing with fire and mischief
Gripping my towel a little tighter, I smile and step forward, expecting him to step aside.
