“If we can get our act together during your service games, I think we’ll be fine,” Indy said, hoping the joke didn’t cross a line and ruin this extremely newfound peace.
Jasmine smirked, but there was obvious laughter in her eyes. “Excuse me? The problem isn’t my serve. The problem is your net game.”
“Right,” Indy agreed, and then bantered back lightly,“because I’m supposed to be able to cover the entire court when you serve up a meatball.”
“I know it might be a foreign concept to you with that serve,” Jasmine laughed softly, “but sometimes you do have to hit more than one shot to win a point.”
“Didn’t have a problem doing that against you during the Classic, did I?” She saw the hurt flash in Jasmine’s eyes and Indy cringed. That line she wasn’t supposed to cross. It was behind her. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
Jasmine shook her head, her eyes suddenly looking very tired. “Forget it. Are we still playing doubles or was this all a ploy to get me to drop out so you could focus on Bari without Dom having a shit fit?”
“What? Of course I’m playing doubles. I just told you that.”
“Good, then if you don’t mind, I have some packing to finish up before we leave.”
Jasmine silently led her to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
“Yeah, tomorrow,” Indy said, but the door was already closed behind her.
CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT WAS A LARGE, BUSTLINGinternational hub and yet its customs line was painfully slow. The entire tennis world was descending upon Paris for two weeks and apparently someone forgot to warn the French Passport Control. Penny could see fellow players, their coaches and families, along with dozens of tennis people—reporters, officials, and their ilk—all trapped and waiting their turn.
She looked over the faces, wondering if she’d find Alex in the crowd, but the familiar tall frame, broad shoulders, and sandy-blond hair were nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t surprising. According to Dom he wasn’t scheduled to get in until later tonight. She exhaled through her nose and felt her stomach tighten. She hated having things so unresolved between them. The French Open deserved her total focus, but she wanted Alex in her life, and that meant trying tostrike a balance. It wouldn’t be easy, but she was willing to try. It would be a lot easier if he would just talk to her instead of the near complete cutoff of the last few days.
At the front of the line a haggard-looking civil servant with a stern face asked, “Passeport?” rolling therat the end of the word in that effortless way only a native French speaker could.
She slid her passport across the counter.
“D’où venez-vous?” the customs agent asked.
Penny couldn’t speak French, but she’d done this enough to know what she was being asked. “North Carolina in the United States.”
“Pourquoi êtes-vous en France?”
“Roland-Garros,” she said simply.
The agent’s eyes flew up and lit with recognition. A tennis fan. The corner of the agent’s mouth lifted in what could almost be called a smile.
“Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer?”
“No.”
“Très bien. Bonne chance, Mademoiselle Harrison.”
Her passport was passed back across the counter with a new stamp adorning its pages. “Merci.”
Jack’s interview was just as fast, and they soon found themselves dragging two weeks’ worth of luggage and equipment toward the exit. They stepped out of the arrivals gate and into a rainy Paris morning. Raindrops dripping from the overhang assaulted them.
Penny let out a sigh of relief when she saw a man holding a sign with her name on it. Having a waiting car was a large improvement over standing on yet another taxi line andhoping the driver wasn’t in the mood to take a creative route to their hotel like the last time they were here. Her brother slash agent was the absolute best for thinking of it.
“You rock.”
“This wasn’t me,” Jack said, his eyes darting around as he shuffled her toward the car. “Things are different now, Pen. The tournament arranged for it. They want their stars getting to their hotels safe and sound.”
“Mademoiselle,” the driver said, drawing her eyes away from the rain as he held the door open for her.
“Merci,” she whispered, and slid into the back seat.
The driver edged the car away from the curb and soon they were humming along the highway through the outskirts of Paris—mostly open grass fields, modern office buildings, and shopping centers—a view you’d find around almost every airport in every major city. Penny closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat. The vibrations of the car nearly lulled her to sleep.
