"Not surprised. Impressed." He looked her up and down—assessing. "I thought you were beautiful in that red dress last night, but this Emmy is even better."
Emmy felt heat climb her cheeks. "This Emmy is hoping to not embarrass herself too badly."
He laughed, warm and surprised. "God, I love that. Everyone else who walks onto this court acts like they're auditioning for Wimbledon." He gestured to the baseline. "You warmed up?"
"In my apartment. With a wall."
"A wall." His grin widened. "The wall give you any trouble?"
"It was undefeated."
"Then you're ready for me." He walked back to his baseline, bouncing a ball. "Light hit first. Get you loose. Then we see what you've got."
Emmy moved to her position, racquet in hand. The one Grant had given her felt familiar now—she'd been hitting against her apartment wall all week, getting used to the weight, the balance, the way the strings responded when she made contact. Thank god Mrs. Jasinski turned off her hearing aids after nine.
She wasn't good. She knew she wasn't good. But she was prepared.
"Ready?" Tyce called.
"Ready."
He hit a gentle ball toward her forehand. She swung—too early, but she adjusted, made contact, sent it back over the net. Not pretty. But in.
"Good." Tyce returned it, easy. "Keep your eye on the ball. Not on me."
That was harder than it sounded. Tyce was in his element here—confident, fluid, his strong wrists snapping the racquet through each stroke like it weighed nothing. His chestnut hair fell across his forehead the same way it had in that Nike ad a few years back. Tennis tan. Easy smile. A man told he was beautiful so often he'd stopped noticing.
That confidence felt familiar. Daniel had smiled like that too—right up until Emmy caught him in lies he'd somehow convinced her were her fault.
She shook it off. This was business, not personal.
They rallied. Ten shots. Twenty. Emmy's breathing grew harder, moving side to side, remembering everything Grant had taught her. Fight or flight, Em. Choose fight. The ball came to her backhand—she rotated her hips, followed through, sent it cross-court.
"Nice!" Tyce sounded genuinely pleased. "You have played before. I thought you were lying—most people do."
"I had a good teacher."
"Anyone I know?" He hit another ball, a little harder.
Emmy hesitated, chasing it down. "I'm not sure. Well—everyone knows him. Or thinks they do." She returned the shot, a little breathless. "Grant Knight."
Tyce's next stroke faltered—just for a second, just enough for Emmy to slam one past him into the corner. He recovered instantly, but his eyes had sharpened.
"Ah." He collected the ball, bouncing it twice. "You were with him last night. On the terrace. Your date?"
"No." The word came out too fast. "We're just friends. Old family friends."
Tyce's eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice was all charm. "Good." He grinned. "Because I have a confession, Emmy Woodhouse."
"A confession?" Her voice squeaked.
"I know I signed up to be matched." He hit another ball her way, easy, keeping the rally alive. "But I'm not really looking. I've got my eye on someone already."
He winked at her. Emmy felt heat flood her cheeks.
"Our little secret?" Tyce said.
Emmy nodded, flustered, and missed the next shot entirely.
