Chapter one
South Kensington
The smell of fresh bread was inescapable.
It crept through the floorboards, curled under the bedroom door, and settled into the sheets like a third person in the bed. Every morning, without fail, Pierre Moreau was up at four, firing the ovens, kneading dough with the same stubborn, flour-dusted hands that had built a bakery in Montreuil — the working-class Paris suburb where Andre had grown up — from nothing.
Now those hands built something new in South Kensington, one of London’s most elegant neighborhoods, where the white-fronted Victorian terraces stood in quiet, moneyed rows.
Blake lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, the pale London light filtering through the bay windows. Beside him, Andre was still asleep, one arm thrown across Blake’s chest, his dark curls pressed against Blake’s shoulder. His breathing was slow and even, his lips slightly parted.
Three years. It had been three years since Blake had kissed Andre on the court at Arthur Ashe Stadium, three years since his father, Dr. Richard Harlan, had stood up from his seat, turned his back, and walked out of thestadium without a word. Three years since the world had exploded and then, gradually, lost interest.
They weren’t a scandal anymore. They were just Blake and Andre.
Blake turned his head, pressing his nose into Andre’s hair. He smelled like turpentine and sleep and something faintly sweet — probably the lavender shortbread Claire had been testing the night before. Andre had been her willing subject, eating three pieces while offering detailed critiques on the texture of the crumb.
“You are breathing on me,” Andre mumbled, his voice thick and rough with sleep.
“Sorry.”
“No you are not.”
Blake smiled.“ No. I’m not.”
“Imbécile,” Andre murmured, but there was no heat in it. Just warmth.
Andre shifted, rolling onto his back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He squinted at the light coming through the windows, then turned to look at Blake. “What time is it?”
“Almost seven.”
“Why are you awake at seven? You do not have practice until ten.”
“Your father woke me up. He’s banging around down there like he’s building a cathedral.”
Andre groaned, pulling the pillow over his face. “He does this every morning. He thinks the bread will not rise if he is quiet.”
From below, as if on cue, came the muffled sound of Pierre’s voice, raised in what sounded like an argument with the oven. Claire’s calmer tone followed, a gentle counterpoint that seemed to settle nothing.
It had taken a year after the US Open for Pierre to come around. A full year of silence, of unreturned calls, of Andre pretending it didn’t matter while Blake watched the hurt settle deeper into his bones. Then one afternoon, Pierre had appeared in the doorway of their flat, holding a box of pastries and wearing the expression of a man who had swallowed something unpleasant but necessary. His apology had been gruff, short, and delivered mostly to the floor. Andre had stood in the hallway, frozen, until Pierre had looked up and said, “Well? Are you going to let me in or not?”
Claire had arrived a week later with a suitcase and a photograph of Andre as a small boy holding his first racket. She had hugged Blake before she hugged her son, pressing her face into his shoulder and whispering "merci" so quietly that Blake almost missed it.
Now Pierre ran the bakery on the ground floor, complaining about the English weather, the English flour, and the English customers who didn’t understand that a proper croissant required patience. Claire managed the books and kept the display case stocked with the lavender shortbread that had become the neighborhood’s open secret. On weekday mornings, a line of regulars stretched out the door before seven.
Pierre still slipped extra croissants into Blake’s racket bag when he thought no one was looking.
Blake sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood floor was cool under his feet. He stretched, his shoulders popping, the lingering soreness from yesterday’s practice session pulling at his muscles. He was preparing for the grass-court season, and Doug Wexler, Blake’s coach, had been pushing him hard — two-hour sessions in the morning, fitness work in the afternoon, video analysis in the evening.
Being ranked number four in the world required a level of maintenance that sometimes felt like a second job.
“Come back to bed,” Andre said from behind the pillow.
“I can’t. I need to eat before I run.”
“You and your running.” Andre pulled the pillow away, propping himself up on one elbow. His dark eyes tracked Blake as he moved across the room, pulling on a pair of running shorts and a faded t-shirt. “You know, normal people drink coffee first.”
“Normal people aren’t playing Queen’s Club in two weeks.”
