Page 12 of Whiskey Throttle
I take a long sip and shrug.
“Just didn’t sleep well.”
They all exchange a look I don’t bother interpreting. They’ve known me long enough to smell smoke even when there’s no fire. And there’s definitely fire. Hormonal fire.
“Should we order the usual?” I deflect, sitting down with a groan after moving my racket to my bag.
“Actually,” Leslie says, adjusting her visor, “I need to duck out, I’ve got a board meeting at three.”
“Do we have to go to lunch?” Vanessa, the oldest of our group, groans, wiping sweat from her brow. “I’m beat and just want to hit the sauna. Then a massage with Sven.”
Her smile is all too knowing, even if she stumbled a few times during the match and could probably use some aftercare. Sven is her favorite for aftercare, despite her claiming that she’s happily married. The fact that she doesn’t keep it a secret like most at the club is shocking. Even the owners are aware of it and turn a blind eye. Then again, her husband battled prostate cancer many moons ago and is unable to complete his husbandly duties, according to her. He just wants her to be happy again.
“Sounds terrible for you, Vanessa,” Elise chides, always the first to give everyone a hard time. “I can’t stay either. I’m meeting my decorator downtown. He’s impossibly late with my wallpaper samples.”
Within five minutes, they packed their bags, put on their sunglasses, and vanished behind polite excuses and a commitment for another practice round later in the week. Leaving me alone at our shaded lunch table, still damp from the game and riddled with the kind of nervous energy I hate admitting to.
I pull my handbag into my lap, reapply my lipstick, and move it to an empty chair along with my racket. I snatch up my drink, ponder ordering lunch and eating here alone, or head home to see what the Chef can prepare.
That’s when I see him.
Walking up the path to the courts. Loose white T-shirt. Tennis bag slung over one shoulder. Sunglasses low on his nose, scanning the space until his eyes land on me.
Oh my.
My pulse stutters. My hand covers the pearls at my neck, nervously picking at the strand. Of all the clubs. Of all the courts. Of all the days. He sees me. Of course he does. And unlike me, he doesn’t look surprised. He looks like he planned this.
Maybe he did. I can’t recall coming across him before at this place. Then again, the Harringtons have open membership most everywhere. I’ve yet to see any of them sweat in public during tennis or golf. Sweat from public scandal or other things, yes, but not from physical exertion.
I sit straighter. Cross one leg over the other. Smooth my skirt. Hide the shaking in my hand behind another sip of tea while still clutching my pearls. He heads straight for my table, slow and sure.
This is bad, I tell myself. So why does it feel so good to have his sudden attention?
He doesn’t break stride, walking straight to my table like it’s his seat, waiting for him. Like I’m just another part of the afternoon he’s planned out. No hesitation. No glance around for witnesses and certainly no shame.
He stops beside my chair. His eyes, impossibly dark, unfazed by the sunlight, drop to my hand still clutching the pearls at my throat. His warm fingers wrap gently around mine, loosening them from the strand. I should flinch. I don’t. I allow it.
He lifts my hand, slowly, deliberately, and presses a kiss to the top. A single breath of heat, just enough to make my skin hum.
“Pearls suit you.”
Releasing my hand with a heat radiating into my skin. His lips are a permanent imprint on my flesh when they drop to my lap.
“That wasn’t discreet or careful,” I comment, watching him slip into the empty chair beside mine and stretching back as if he has all day. He pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose before resting his forearms on the chair’s arms.
“I know.”
He flashes me a half smile, my reflection in his glasses a bit distracting. I set my tea down and pick up my composure.
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
“You didn’t text back.”
“That doesn’t usually warrant a club appearance,” I say, lifting a brow. “I’d ask if you were a member, but I believe there is a building around here with your family name or crest on it.”
I jest, expecting him to counter when he shrugs a shoulder, letting my comment fall flat.
“I was in the neighborhood and heard this club, your club, has excellent . . . iced tea.”
