Page 34 of Risky Match
He doesn’t. What the hell!
We’re standing mere inches apart. His dark gaze hovers on the gap at the bottom of my towel. Slowly, his eyes follow the seam upward, stopping on my upper chest. His eyes seem to follow the water droplets falling from the ends of my hair, running over my exposed skin, and disappearing into the top of the towel.
My eyes track his, hypnotized by his heated stare. My cheeks flush. My breath catches. I don’t move.
Blake reaches out and drags his index finger down my arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. His voice is low and gravelly. “You can use it anytime, Princess.”
I bite my lip and lunge for the door, fleeing before I do something I’ll regret.
The tensionfinally begins to ease once I’m safely back in my room. I dry off, dress, and turn to the evidence I gathered.
I start with the photos of the notes. The notes are cryptic but seem harmless. One mentions a play in London. I doubt that note is his. Another refers to someone wanting tickets—maybe for Wimbledon or the play. There’s a reminder to have Josh regrip all his racquets. That note is clearly Blake’s. The rest are similar. None seems helpful.
Still, I send encrypted messages to the princes with the photos, the key info, and a summary of where I planted thedevices. I’ll have to copy the data from Blake’s laptop and place the trackers later.
I check the time. It’s an hour until dinner, so I lie on the bed to relax and plan my next move.
But my mind drifts back to our time on the practice court. I smile at the way he made me laugh. His casual touch sent chills down my spine. And after the first two disastrous games, he suppressed his annoyance about playing doubles and even showed respect for my game.
If only he weren’t a suspected criminal.
11
BRIANNA
Waking up, I double-check my phone to make sure I’m not dreaming. It reallyisMonday—the official start of Wimbledon. For the first time, I’m here as a player, not merely a royal spectator.
While not every player competes today, the energy and anticipation of opening day are unmistakable.
I sigh and smile, stretching beneath the plush comforter, savoring the last peaceful minutes before the chaos begins.
There’s still a pang of regret that the mission derailed my singles invitation. But even so, playing here in any capacity is a dream come true. I’ll cherish every moment—even while carrying out my mission.
Our first mixed doubles match isn’t until Friday, but Blake’s opening singles match is tomorrow. With that on his mind, there’s no chance he’ll practice with me today.
Hopefully, Martina found someone else for me to hit with. I’d better check in with her.
Me: What time do we have a practice court?
Martina: 11 a.m. Meet you there.
Me: You know Blake won’t be there, right?
Martina: Yes. Josh and I are coordinating practices. I’ve made other arrangements. Don’t worry.
Me: This isn’t ideal.
Martina: No, but you’re both excellent players. We’ll make it work. We can talk during practice.
Me: Thanks.
I’m trying not to stress over our lack of doubles practice, but it’s hard. I’m competitive by nature. Even if the mission is my top priority, I’m still playing to win—and that’s tough when my partner doesn’t seem to care.
But Martina is right. I need to stay positive and work on a strategy to maximize our chances. Doubles isn’t usually the main focus at Grand Slams, and players often split attention with singles. My not playing singles gives us an advantage. I can concentrate on our doubles game and study opponents’ matches to spot weaknesses we can exploit.
Later that morning,Erin and I approach the practice court. She grins. “It looks like Martina found you two handsome hitting partners.”
I follow her gaze and can’t help but agree. “They are rather handsome. I gather you wouldn’t mind an introduction.”
