“Your instructor must be pretty bad.”
“No, this is my fault. He’s great.”
Smile lines form at the corners of his eyes. “I probably shouldn’t look at your questionnaire then.”
I give an “oh, shucks” swing of my arm. “I didn’t finish it, so you couldn’t even if you wanted to. Probably a defense mechanism.”
Calder grunts. “Well, luckily your instructor saw that coming. So he took care of it.” He turns and walks to his bag, pulling out an old-school manila folder.
“What is?—?”
He hands it to me. “You can post them if you want.”
I stare at the folder, then flip it open to see a form with Calder’s name written at the top. And behind it?—
“You filled one out for me?”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I think you’ll find it’s extremely accurate.”
nineteen
I finda quiet table away from the group and pull out the first sheet. There are enough people here, they won’t miss me for a round.
“Pierce, Frederick Calder” is scrawled across the top of a lined piece of paper. Very official. I look up with a grin, but Calder isn’t watching. He isn’t . . . on the court anymore either. Strange.
I keep reading.
1. What’s your ideal Saturday?
Sleeping in. Then pickleball two ways.
I choke on my laugh and search for him again.Where the hell is he?
2. Biggest turn-on?
You already know this.
Uh, yes. Pickleball skorts.
3. Biggest red flag?
You already know this.
True again. People who swear they can only play with one brand of balls.
4. What’s your type?
Women who risk their lives to rescue animals that will die next week.
I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from squealing. My heart feels like it’s been dunked in carbonated water, all bubbly and popping.
I rip out the second sheet with my name on the top, and my breathing hitches. There aren’t four questions listed like his. I scan the page, then flip it over. There are twenty-eight questions?
1. What’s your favorite snack?
Those cinnamon almond butter biscuit things. You always have one in your bag.
2. What’s your favorite color?
