“You bring all your Wimbledon girls here?” she asked.
I laughed inwardly, shaking my head. “Nah. This is strictly a one-woman-only pasta celebration.”
She raised a brow like she didn’t buy a word of it. “You sure you’re supposed to be out with mystery blondes during Wimbledon week? Doesn’t sound like part of a strict performance regime for a man such as yourself.”
“As long as I don’t eat too much bread, stick to water, and I’m in bed by nine, the coach will allow it.” I winked.
Her smile spread wider, eyes glittering. The sarcasm that was on her face fading.
Jesus, I was already unravelling for this girl.
We ordered pasta and a small glass of wine for her, while I got something boring and healthy for me with water only. She didn’t push or tease me about the athlete stuff. Just nodded like she got it.
And then the conversation started…and didn’t stop.
It started out as small talk. Tennis, her job, the madness of London, her softer Welsh accent that caught me off guard. But the conversation didn’t stay small. She asked me real, proper questions—and then she listened. Not the polite nod-along listening. Her eyes stayed on mine steadily, like she could cut through the charm and see the bloke underneath.
She was funny, too. Wickedly funny.
“I mean, fair play, Anderson’s serve was solid,” she said, twirling her fork. “But did you notice his weird foot tap every time he felt under pressure?”
I blinked. “His what?”
“Tiny little double tap with his left foot,” she said like it was obvious. “Like a tell. I started spotting it in the second set.”
I just stared at her. “You’re kidding. I’ve played him a dozen times. Never clocked that.”
She smiled, soft and smug at once. “Mmm. People always give themselves away. You just have to know where to look.”
Bloody hell. That got me.
I leaned back, studying her, something slowly unfurling inside me. Not just the attraction, though that was undeniable, but there was also curiosity. She shrugged like it was nothing, but she knew she’d hooked me.
I grinned. “Go on then, what’d you notice about me?”
She raised her wineglass to her lips, peeking at me over the rim with that knowing little smile.
“You play better when you’ve got fire in you. But you’re not a fiery person. You’re quite hard on yourself. Fiercely. But you hide it under that laid-back charm, which works…mostly.” Her voice softened, eyes still locked on mine. “But then you looked at me in the stands…”
She set the glass down gently.
“…and you relaxed. Like maybe you didn’t feel so alone out there.”
Fuck. I couldn’t speak even if I tried. Then she added with a mischievous glint, “Also, your left eyebrow twitches when you’re about to hit a drop shot. Bit of a giveaway, love.” I burst out laughing and dragged a hand over my face. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?” she teased.
“You’re terrifying.”
She grinned. “So you’ve said. Occupational hazard. Sorry.”
God help me, I wanted to see what else she could do with that kind of focus.
I looked at her then, properly. Dr Kate Ashford, sitting across from me in a soft, red dress, had no clue how stunning she looked when she was completely in her element.
I didn’t want the night to end. Not yet. Not for a long time. Because I’d never met a woman this clever, who made me feel this seen, this undone. And I was already wondering how the hell I was supposed to let her go after dinner.
Chapter Nine
