She stepped inside.
The court was cavernous, smelling of rubber and filtered air. And there, on the far baseline, was Grant.
He wasn't wearing white. He was in a slate-gray performance tee that clung to his chest and black athletic shorts, already glistening with sweat, his hair pushed back from his forehead. He looked focused and lethal and entirely too awake for seven in the morning.
He tossed a ball into the air, coiled his body like a loaded spring, and cracked a serve down the center line.
It sounded like a gunshot.
Emmy stopped in the doorway.
"Oh no."
Grant caught the rebound off the back curtain, spun the racquet in his hand, and looked at her. He didn't smile. He checked his watch.
“5:59. Late again, Woodhouse."
"I am punctual," Emmy corrected, walking onto the court. The acoustics made her sneakers squeak aggressively. "And I am ready."
Grant looked her up and down. His gaze lingered on the pleated skirt for a fraction of a second too long before snapping back to her face.
Then his eyes dropped to her feet. He frowned.
"You look like you're going to Wimbledon. But those shoes are going to send you to the ER."
Emmy looked down. Pristine, marshmallow-soft, very expensive. "These are running shoes! They have arch support!"
"They have a platform sole. You try to cut laterally in those, you're rolling an ankle." He shook his head, walking toward the sideline bench. "Stay there."
He reached behind his duffel bag and pulled out not one, but three shoeboxes. He stacked them on the bench.
"Come here."
Emmy walked over, bewildered. Grant tapped the middle box.
"Try those."
Emmy opened the lid. Inside was a pair of sneakers that looked like they meant business—sleek, low-profile, shoes that looked like they'd been designed in a wind tunnel.
She checked the tongue. Size seven.
"How did you know my size?"
Grant took a very long drink of water. Didn't look at her. "Guessed."
"You guessedexactlyright?"
"I bought three pairs. Half-size above, half-size below. Covered the spread." Still not looking at her. Very deliberately not looking at her. "It's called risk management. I don't want to explain to West why I let you break a metatarsal on my watch."
Risk management. He'd gone to a store, purchased three pairs of professional tennis shoes, and hauled them here at 6 AM. For her.
Emmy didn't know what to do with that information. So she sat down and started lacing.
They fit perfectly. Of course they did.
"Okay," she said, standing up and bouncing a little. She felt lower to the ground. Exposed. "I'm shod. Let's do this."
Grant reached into his bag and pulled out a racquet. Not an antique—a sleek, matte black Wilson Clash.
