“So… same time tomorrow?”
She didn’t look up from her notes. “You’ve been assigned to me every day this week. And match days.”
“Perfect. Plenty of time to get to know each other,” I said, flashing the smile that usually worked on everyone from ball girls to chair umpires. “Maybe over dinner?”
That earned me a raised brow. “Is that how you ask someone out? After they’ve just brutalised your hamstring?”
I grinned. That Irish accent was lethal. “What can I say? I’m an optimist.”
“No dinner. Just rehab,” she added briskly, folding a towel with military precision.
“That sounds like a boundary,” I mused, tilting my head. “Are you always this professional, or just immune to my devastating charm?”
“Not immune,” she said, brushing past me to move her notes. “Vaccinated.”
Her mouth didn’t smile but her eyes almost did.
Almost.
The laugh that rolled out of me wasn’t intentional, it just happened. She had me laughing at a rejection, and I wasn't even mad about it.
She kept her back to me, filing paperwork with no idea I’d just been two seconds away from combusting on her table.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Orla,” I said, stepping into the hallway a little disappointed she didn’t try to stop me, she didn't even look back. She hadn’t even realized I’d read her name off the door before I walked in—that I’d been paying attention to her long before she’d ever touched me.
My leg felt looser than it had in weeks. The rest of me wasn’t even close.
Fine. It was fine.
If she didn’t want me, that was her problem.
…Or was it?
As the door closed behind me I suddenly felt just how hot that room had gotten. The hallway was almost as frosty as herattitude. My mind wandered back to her dark hair, warm hands, that tiny almost-smile she hadn’t meant to give me.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I didn’t get like this about girls. It was supposed to be simple: fuck, forget, move on.
But as I limped down the hallway, one thought refused to leave me alone. I couldn’t wait for her to touch me again and it had nothing to do with my hamstring.
Chapter 3
Orla
I tried updatinghis notes in handwriting that suddenly didn’t look like mine, because apparently touching Tyler Reed meant my hands no longer knew how to function in any professional capacity.
The second the door clicked shut, I exhaled for what felt like the first time since he walked in.
Bloody hell.
I leant against the cabinet, eyes closed, trying to reset my brain. My pulse was still somewhere up near the fluorescent lights, and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone who’d never successfully held a pen before.
The way he’d said my name, God, like he’d been practicing the vowels. I hadn't even given it to him. He must have swiped it off my ID badge while I was checking his range of motion. Cheating, really. A tactical strike on my professionalism before he’d even hit the door.
Bloodyhell.
I peeled off my other glove, except it pinged off with far too much enthusiasm and ricocheted across the room like a rogueelastic band. Perfect. Very professional. I retrieved it with all the dignity of a woman definitely not having an internal crisis.
