"Constantly. And with athletes especially, there's this whole other layer—they're used to people wanting access, not them. So you have to find matches who have their own thing going on. People who aren't going to make the relationship their whole identity."
"Makes sense." West grinned at her. "You know, this really is the perfect job for you. You get paid to tell people what's wrong with them and who they should date. It's basically what you've been doing for free since middle school."
"I don't tell people what'swrongwith them?—"
"You told me my prom date was 'aesthetically acceptable but conversationally limited.'"
"She thought the FL in fluid ounces meant Florida ounces, West."
Emmy smoothed her napkin across her lap, aware of Grant's attention like a hand resting on the back of her neck.
"So who are they?" Brynn asked. "Your clients. Anyone we'd know?"
Emmy hesitated. "I can't say names. Confidentiality. But—" She glanced at Grant, then away. "One of them is fairly high-profile."
"Come on," West pressed. "A hint."
"Fine. One hint." Emmy smiled. "Tennis."
"Serena Williams?" Mom looked up, interested for the first time.
"She's married, Mom."
"Is she? Good for her."
"Not Tyce Duke?" Dad reached for the bread. "I heard he's the new pro at the Commonwealth Club."
"You know who Tyce Duke is?" Emmy couldn't hide her surprise.
"Of course I know who Tyce Duke is. I watch tennis. It's very soothing—like a metronome." He tore off a piece of bread. "His backhand is remarkably consistent for someone who learned on clay courts. Though I understand he's had some controversy. Something about a referee in Rome?"
"He's very handsome," Mom added absently, returning to her chicken.
"Mom."
"What? He is. I have eyes, Emmy."
"Tyce Duke." West let out a low whistle. "That's a get. How'd you land him?"
Emmy didn't have to look at Grant to know he was watching her. "We played tennis. He wanted to see if I could keep up."
"You played tennis?" West laughed. "Em, you're terrible at tennis."
"I took some lessons."
Grant's fork paused. Emmy's gaze dropped to his hand—the left one, where the scrape from the tennis court had faded to a thin pink line across his knuckles. Evidence. Sitting right there against her mother's French linen tablecloth.
"And I held my own," she continued, not looking at the scar. "Even took one game off him."
"You took a game off a Wimbledon quarterfinalist?" West looked skeptical.
"Hemighthave been distracted." Emmy felt heat climb her cheeks. "Signing autographs." She took a very deliberate sip of water. "Anyway, Tyce signed. That's what matters. And hopefully he'll introduce me to other potential clients, open some doors."
"I'll bet he will," Grant muttered.
Emmy shot him a look. He didn't look up.
"Cecelia Ferrance is a piece of work," West said. "She's been sniffing around the team offices for years trying to poach players. As if we need help finding dates."
