I shrugged. “Grew up on country. My dad’s a fan. Mostly old stuff, but I like a lot of the newer ones, too. Got a thing for songs that tell a story.”
That cheeky smirk softened, just slightly. Like I’d peeled something back she wasn’t expecting. “Didn’t see that coming,” she murmured.
“You really think I’m that much of a tosser?” I glanced sideways, loving the way her laugh lit up the car.
“I’m still evaluating,” she said with a giggle, and I swear I almost missed the turn just waiting to hear it again.
The car fell silent for a while then, but it was a comfortable quiet. I was just so damn happy that she was with me, I didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Her hand lay on the console as if it belonged there, and maybe it did. I reached over, lacing my fingers through hers. It was pure instinct, no hesitation. She looked down, surprised, but didn’t pull away. I brought her hand to my lips, kissing it slowly, warmly, letting my mouth linger against the soft skin of her wrist, as if to remind her exactly how it felt. What I’d done to every part of her. She didn’t say anything, just turned her face forward again, that small, secret smile playing on her lips. The one she thought I couldn’t see. The one that said she wanted more, but wasn’t ready to admit it.
Same, sweetheart. Same.
I drove on, thumb stroking her knuckles, letting the silence stretch. Because I wasn’t just going to feed her tonight.
I was going to wreck her all over again.
The second she was inside, I kissed her. I couldn’t resist. I’d been craving it since this morning. After just a day, I was already desperate for her lips, like she was my addiction. I kissed her slowly, deeply, as if I needed it to sustain me. She giggled against my mouth, sweet and breathless, and I immediately thought,I’m done for. She glanced around as I headed back to the kitchen, her gaze settling on the table I’d prepared, the candle I’d unearthed from the back of a drawer, and the lingering aroma of garlic and rosemary. I’d never done anything likethis before. Not for anyone. Dinners for one had become my normal. “Jordan, you really didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” she said, shrugging off her jacket like she was home. Honestly, it felt like she was. Like we’d done this a hundred times. “You have a lot on your mind.”
I shrugged, grinning over my shoulder. “Well, I have to have a decent meal before tomorrow. Didn’t feel like eating alone. You’re a good excuse.” I winked.
It was the truth. And maybe more than that. Maybe I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts the night before the biggest match of my life. Not when she was an option. No…that didn’t sound right. It felt like she was theright option.
She leaned on the counter, raising a brow. “You’re playing a Wimbledon semi-final tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, stretching? Meditating? Visualising?”
I didn’t look up. “I’ve been visualising all day. Just wasn’t all tennis,” I said with the biggest grin on my face.
Her blush was immediate, and fucking beautiful.
“You’re terrible.” She shook her head, a laugh bubbling up despite herself.
“Just being honest.” I smirked at her.
I turned on the playlist—Riley Green, obviously, as that had been a win with her. I held up a bottle of wine for her. Gesturing it to her, no pressure. She declined with that soft shake of her head, all grace and restraint.
“You’re being very responsible,” I said, amused.
“Well,” she said, sitting on the stool by the counter, “you need to be sharp tomorrow. I figured the least I could do was not lead you astray.”
I didn’t look at her when I answered. I didn’t have to. “You’re already leading me astray.”
Silence.
I could feel her watching me and smiling softly, my heart beating just a little too loud in the quiet space between us.
She changed the subject.
“So…how are you feeling about Reed?” she asked.
“Big serve. Plays loose until it matters, then tries to muscle his way through. And he’s got a temper. If he spirals, he’ll torch the whole match trying to hit his way out of it.”
I’d known him a while. Talented as hell, but too busy playing to the crowd half the time. Always had a smirk for the photographers, a chirp for the lines’ judges.
She tilted her head. “I noticed something in his last match. After he double-faulted twice, he started rushing his toss. And he tightens up on his forehand, shortens the swing, like he’s forcing it.”
I stilled mid-stir, turning toward her.
“You actually noticed that?”
She shrugged, all casual brilliance. “An eye for behaviour mixed with sporty genetics.”
