With my hair still tied in a messy knot on top of my head, I scrubbed myself clean—showers had become perfunctory—and threw on a burgundy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and black leggings. I dragged some mascara across my lashes, brushed through my hair, and tossed it back into a messy bun.
I was walking down the stairs when I caught sight of a broad-shouldered figure coming up the walkway. There was a knock at the door as soon as I hit the bottom step.
“Get it, Juliette,” my mom called from the kitchen.
Opening the door, I was met with the exact opposite of the guy I’d just met in the park. This one was wearing dark jeans and a polo, and had longish hair, tanned skin, and the bluest of blue eyes.
“Hi. You must be Juliette. I’m Coach King ... Drew. I took over at Hafton last season. The tennis program,” he explained, mistaking my immediate crushing and infatuation for confusion.
The words clogged my throat, embarrassment flushed through my veins, and I was sure my cheeks were the color of my hair. It was the basest of attractions, purely physical, something I’d definitely never experienced.
After all, I was only twenty. That was normal, right?
I wasn’t meant to fall like this when I was so young. Who the heck knew? My mom had certainly never prepared me for these things, or helped me navigate them. Her cold, austere parenting style was only warmed by my father when he was alive.
“You were expecting me, right?” The coach cleared his throat and glanced at an oversized watch on his wrist.
Underneath his bad-boys looks was quite a gentleman, no doubt the polished product of a prep school. No match for my sheltered suburban-public-school-educated upbringing.
Kind of like California. As if that wasn’t mistake enough—signing up for that West Coast lifestyle—I was falling into some kind of blissful spell over my coach-to-be. We hadn’t even spoken more than a few words to each other, and my body was humming as a result of my indecent thoughts.
“Um, hi,” I said awkwardly, and added a lame little wave.
My mom picked this moment to come striding out of the kitchen, making an entrance.
“Genevieve Smith.” She held out her hand. “And you are?”
“Coach King.”
We were all still crowded around the threshold, the chilly air making its way inside, which was fine because I was hotter than a fire in hell. And I should know. I’d been to hell, and I was pretty certain I didn’t want to go back.
Until now.
“I thought the coach at Hafton was older?” Looking King up and down, my mom inquired about the older coach as if this was all about her. And like everything in my life, it was.
“You mean Ace, Coach Hall? He retired two years ago. I helped him out for a year, and then they gave me the gig full-time. Actually, I was the one who reached out to you. I saw some kick-ass tape of Juliette playing. Pardon my French.”
My mom rolled her eyes at his forthrightness.
I was fascinated with King’s white smile, his biceps, and his not-so-muted attitude. Although he could have been muttering, “Blah, blah, blah,” for all I knew, and I would have been spellbound. Something naughty and oh-so-right was simmering in him, just beneath the surface, clamoring to get out.
“May I come in?” he finally asked.
“Yes, yes. Come into the kitchen,” my mom suggested. She offered cold drinks and left the two of us sitting across from each other at our butcher-block table.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
I want to swim in your eyes. I haven’t had a pulse since I left California ... until now ... with you seated in front of me.
I felt all of those soul-infused words deep in my belly and slowly rising in my throat. Before they came bubbling out, I tamped them down.
Instead, I said, “Sophomore status when it comes to sports. Tennis player, twenty, failure.”
“Hey.”
The deepness of his voice set off a ripple of lust through me. When his hand settled over mine, I stared at his calloused fingers and insanely sexy forearms. I wanted to run my fingertips along the veins and stroke his calluses with my thumb.
“You’re going to have a second chance, and I’m going to make it happen.”
