“Hurry!” he says, then hangs up.
Macie watches me slip my phone back in my pocket. “You’ve got to go?” she guesses.
“Sort of,” I say awkwardly. “Gus tracked down Ricky, and there aren’t any parking spots in the lot with the tournament …”
“It’s fine,” Macie says. “I haven’t played since middle school, so this probably wasn’t my best shot at impressing you anyway.” She winks, and I tell my facial muscles to smile back. “I’ll text you later, let you know how it went.”
“Sounds good. Good luck.”
“Thank—oh, there’s Abby! Gotta go!” Macie jogs toward the bleachers.
I watch her braid swing back and forth until she disappears into the milling crowd, delaying looking at Wren. I’m surprised she’s still standing here. No doubt she has much more exciting things to do.
“You won the whole damn thing?” I confirm once we’re alone again.
“The singles tournament. Doubles has never been my thing.”
“Congratulations, Wren,” a woman says, passing by. “Give my best to your family.”
“Thanks. Will do,” she calls back. To me, lower, she says, “I know a shortcut to the parking lot.”
“Lead the way,” I say. My phone is buzzing in my pocket again.
“Great job, Wren,” an older man calls as we approach the patio. “Let Hanson and Josephine know how much we’re looking forward to the party on Friday.”
“I will,” Wren replies, cutting left.
The crowd is less congested farther from the tennis courts. We skirt the edge of the pool fence and walk along a line of parked golf carts.
“Watch your step,” she tells me as the trimmed grass transitions to mulch. “It’s just past—shit.”
I don’t have to ask her what’s wrong. I’m hit directly in the face by the spray of a sprinkler that suddenly popped up from the ground. Another is aimed at my thigh, soaking half of my shorts. The flower bed seems to wrap around the entire periphery of the main building, meaning there’s another hundred feet of sprinklers to navigate.
Wren’s laughing as she darts ahead, and there’s a reluctant grin on my face as I sprint after her, raising one arm in a pointless attempt to block the water.
I’m panting by the time we reach grass again. Wren looks barely exerted, despite playing tennis all morning, which is irritating and impressive.
“That”—I swipe an arm across my forehead like a windshield wiper, and water drips into my eyes—“was the worst fucking shortcut.”
“Sorry.” Wren doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. Mostly amused.
I shake my head like a dog, sending some stray droplets her way. Wren doesn’t flinch or jump away, which is when I realize she’s as soakedas I am. Which isalsowhen I notice the shorts and bra she’s wearing under her dress are entirely visible beneath the wet white fabric.
I do a shitty job of not staring.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before, Captain.”
I jerk my chin up, meeting her knowing gaze. Yeah, I have seen Wren naked before. But it’s not really a sight you get sick of.
I’m shrugging out of my gray T-shirt before I can analyze if it’s a good idea, tossing it to her.
Wren catches it, which I’m especially impressed by since her eyes are locked on my abs, not my throw.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” I remind her.
She doesn’t startle at being called out. Her gaze sweeps back up my chest, slowly, lingering like a physical touch.
I have to repeatedly remind my dick that nothing is going to happen. Not with Wren. Not now, not ever again.
