“Yes, I was congratulating you again on a wonderful performance out on the court today. Simply fantastique.”
“Thank you.”
“I have been speaking to several sponsors tonight. I do not have to tell you that you are very interesting to them. Your looks and the potential they see, it is an excellent combination. I will be speaking to Dominic. This win, it will mean wild cards, Indiana, and wild cards will put you on the biggest stage in the world. These companies will be willing to pay to see their brands showcased on that stage, but my hands are tied until you make your decision.”
Caroline gestured out into the party, where men and women in business attire were working the room. Tennis was a high-end sport, and its sponsors leaned toward the ritzy side of the market. Which companies were interested in her? Rolex? Longines? Nike? Lacoste?
She bit her lip, suddenly feeling guilty. Caroline had been working on her behalf without any guarantee that Indy would actually sign with her. She was a shark, but maybe in a world where people treated you like bait, maybe she needed a shark.
“Okay.”
Caroline tilted her head. “Okay?”
“Okay, I’m in. Where do I sign?”
The agent’s smile was as wide as her stiletto heels were tall. She pulled a file folder from her large clutch purse and then offered Indy a pen.
“Your signature here.”
She signed her name quickly.
“Magnifique,” Caroline said, adding her own signature. “You will not regret this decision, Indiana. You are talented, very talented, more so than you even realize, I think.”
“I think I’m starting to understand.”
RIVULETS OF SWEAT DRIPPED FROM HER FOREHEAD AS PENNYattacked the ball. Air pushed through her lungs; she grunted with the effort of playing the ricochets off the wall. She counted in her head: ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred backhands. She let the ball fly by her after the last stroke, her eyes slipping closed as she tried to regain her breath. It was a good workout, but it hadn’t solved the problem.
Her hands fell to her hips. “Damn it.”
With the rhythm of each solid shot against the wall, she could hear Alex calling her “love,” his voice in that half-sarcastic lilt, the smallest touch setting her entire body on fire, then that other way he spoke sometimes, the earnest, deep tones telling her she was the most incredible-looking girl he’d ever seen. They hadn’t even spoken since their almost kiss, not even during training. She wasn’t sure ifhe was avoiding her or the other way around, maybe both. Pushing herself to near exhaustion wasn’t working. No matter how hard she went at it, it was impossible to clear her mind. It was like Australia all over again and she couldn’t let that happen. Not when Paris was in five days.
She tossed her racket against the fence surrounding the small half-court used for groundstroke drills, grabbed a towel from her bag, and wiped the sweat from her forehead, down her arms, and across her midriff. Her sports bra and shorts were soaked through.
Her breath came back to her and she took a small swig of water before picking up her racket again—one hundred forehands and then she’d call it a day.
Penny wandered to the locker room, muscles aching pleasantly after her long workout, but she hesitated at the door. She didn’t want to go home. She turned around and walked down the path, away from the locker rooms and toward the beach. Glancing up at the sky, she noticed that the sun was beginning to set. She could get in a quick run on the sand before it got too dark. And then she could pass out on her bed exhausted enough that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t dream of him.
Her thoughts turned into a complete mess as her feet pushed through the sand. She stayed close to the water where the ground was firmer, but her calves still burned with the effort. Her focus needed to be completely on tennis and not on Alex Russell or his stupid meditation exercises ortheir almost kiss or why he was almost kissing her if he was going to dinner with Caroline Morneau or how four months after their night together, she could still feel a thrill surge through her body at the mere thought of those moments in his arms.
Up ahead, she saw a dark lump sitting in the sand, the setting sun reflecting off something next to it.
As she jogged closer, the lump took human shape: a man hunched over, knees up, and a glass bottle wedged into the sand beside him. Alex. He caught sight of her as she drew near and he held the bottle aloft, saluting her, before taking a long draft from it.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, stopping a few feet away.
“I live here,” he said, jerking his thumb back to the house a few yards up the beach. “What are you doing here? Come back for that kiss, did you?”
She ignored the biting tone in his voice. “Trying to clear my head.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that head of yours foggy, would we? You might do something stupid like give me the time of day.”
“You’re drunk.”
“A little,” he admitted, standing up and dusting off his jeans. “This is how I clear my head, love. You know, when the meditation doesn’t quite do the job.”
“There are better ways,” she said, though she was vastly tempted to throw herself onto the sand, steal the bottle, and drown her problems in alcohol.
“You run until you’re so tired you pass out. I drink until I pass out. Don’t see there’s much of a difference.”
