Page 16 of Whiskey Throttle
I’m in so much trouble.
This is the opposite of discreet and careful. This is loud and vulgar. Flying in the face of good manners and tennis etiquette. Flying in the face of everything I’ve built to survive.
My grip tightens on the racket.
His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flinch. It just holds me there, suspended in the slow unravel of something I can't control. Suddenly, the challenge to beat him, to deliver a screaming ace and wipe that cocky grin off his face, becomes too much under the scrutiny of the stares floating in from the next court.
Another doubles team is watching. Women I’ve known for years. Women who will be at the luncheon tomorrow and the charity auction next week. Women who notice everything. The simmer between us isn’t simmering anymore. It’s boiling. Bubbling over. Visible. What started as a flirtation, a controlled, sophisticated game, has turned into a spectacle.
A story.
A whispered headline waiting to bloom like poison in the club locker room. I step back and lower my racket.
“No,” I murmur, more to myself than him.
He frowns across the court, straightening slowly.
“You okay?”
I’m not. I’m flushed and exposed and completely off my axis.
“I-I need to go.”
I turn too fast and jog toward the sideline. My hands move on instinct. Tossing my racket into the bag, throwing in my visor, and snapping the zipper. He’s already walking toward me.
“Babs.”
But I’m gone.
I don’t wait. I sling the bag over my shoulder and walk toward the back of the clubhouse. Never once turning around. Never letting him see how badly my knees are shaking or how my heart is slamming in my chest like I just lost something I didn’t even know I wanted. Because if I stay, people will know. The ladies will talk.
If I stay, I’ll lose.
I’ve already lost too much.
CHAPTER 5
HOLLISTER
What the hell just happened? One second, we’re locked in a tense rhythm, battling it out with her impressive skills. Next, she’s gone. Snatching up her bag and jogging up the path to the clubhouse. My body is on fire from watching her tiny tennis skirt flip up, exposing her white compression shorts and more flawless skin I’d love to explore.
I’m so fucking confused.
“Babs?” I call after her, jogging to the net.
Nothing.
No turn of the head. No final comment tossed over her shoulder in that razor-edged voice of hers. Just long, deliberate strides toward the club entrance like she’s trying to outrun something. Outrun me.
I rush back to my baseline, snatch up my bag without bothering to zip it, and jog toward the edge of the court. Racket in one hand and tennis balls still in my pocket. By the time I reach the main path, she’s halfway to the veranda that overlooks the tennis courts. I lengthen my stride, practically running now.
“Barbara.”
Wrong name. Too formal. Too cold. She doesn’t stop. Still nothing.
“Hollister?”
I grind to a halt, my name slicing through the moment like a bad ringtone. I turn my head and want to punch the air. Mr. Alastair fucking Wentworth. Member since birth. Golf handicap of five and a mustache that’s seen more powdered noses than a runway bathroom in Miami.
