“Hey,” I said, mock offended. “I’m sturdier than I look.” The way she gently bit the corner of her lip after I said it didn’t go unnoticed.
“So, how about you?” she asked, tipping her head. “All I really know is that you’re a very good tennis player with too much charm and really good hair.”
I gave her a laugh, scratching at my jaw. “Not much to tell. I lived in California all my life, so no rain. My older brother’s in New York with his wife, works in finance. My dad walked out when I was a kid; haven’t seen him since. And my mom drinks too much, so I was mostly raised by my uncle and his wife.”
She went quiet, her expression softening.
“Sounds rough,” she said gently.
I shrugged, trying to play it off, but the knot in my throat stayed. “Yeah. It’s been…rough. But that’s why I play. Tennis helps me escape, it’s the one thing I’ve ever been able to control… sometimes.”
She nodded, her deep brown eyes turning liquid in the lamplight. “You must feel proud of yourself, though. You’re doing so well.”
Proud? I didn’t even know what that felt like anymore.
Instead, I said, “I mess things up…a lot.”
“You’re only human.” She gave me a small, reassuring smile, and something about it cracked me wide open.
I looked at her. “Just wish I was as clever as you.”
She smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Clever only gets you so far. Work-wise, I do alright. The rest is pretty much a shit show.”
I frowned. “I bet that’s not true.”
She shrugged. “Yeah, well. Thirty-one, still single, not married, no kids…”
Huh. Two years older than me. It made sense, the way she carried herself with grounded composure. Way too smart to waste time on a guy like me.
“None of that matters,” I said. “There’s still time.”
She hesitated, then gave me a look that wavered between guarded and honest, like she was debating whether to tell me the raw truth. “I was engaged. Last year. Didn’t exactly work out.”
The words landed heavy. “What a fucking idiot he must’ve been.” Truly. What kind of idiot fumbles a woman like this?
She snorted. “Yeah well…he preferred blondes with fewer opinions.”
“Well, I happen to like your opinions.”
“You like any woman with a pulse.” She smirked.
“Used to,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “I’m tired of that life, Orla. Honestly.”
The disbelief in her face faltered. For a moment, a quiet, cautious spark of trust flickered between us. And fuck, that look. It hit harder than any win.
We talked for an age. About nothing and everything. She tore apart my Spotify playlists. I told her her accent could make a man say yes to just about anything. The streetlamps blinked on. People came and went around us, but it felt like we were sealed inside a little bubble. One I didn’t want to burst.
She checked her watch. “Shit. Reed, you got an extra half hour out of me.”
I smiled, trying not to let the disappointment show. “Best thirty minutes of my week.”
She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her mouth anyway.
Outside the pub, the street was hushed, the humid air clinging like it wanted to hold the night in place. She turned to me.
“Well. Good luck tomorrow,” she said hesitating like she wasn’t quite ready to walk away yet.
“Thanks, Orla.”
