I patted the cushion beside me. He was with me in two strides, collapsing into the sofa like his body had finally run out of adrenaline.
I reached for his hand, pulled it into my lap, and rested my head on his shoulder. He tilted his head back, eyes on the ceiling, silent. Breathing like he was still catching up to everything.
I let the quiet settle for a moment.
“Jordan,” I said softly, my cheek brushing his shoulder. “…Did you just win Wimbledon?”
A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “Yeah, babe. I think I just fucking did.”
I turned to face him, my eyes already welling up again. “I’m so proud of you,” I whispered.
He looked at me, and I could’ve sworn I saw the glassiness in his eyes, too.
“I can’t believe I did it,” he said before pausing. “But do you know the best part?”
I shook my head.
“You were there.”
His lips met mine slowly at first, then he pulled me deeper, like everything that had been held back all day snapped loose in him the second our mouths met.
I let it deepen further, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his neck, the other gripping the front of his shirt.
He broke the kiss just long enough to breathe. “Ten days without you. How am I meant to survive that?”
I nodded, breathless against his forehead. “Ten days. You’ll live.” Tomorrow morning I was leaving him here, heading back to Cardiff to tie things up before I took a giant leap of faith.
“What if I die of neglect?” He pouted.
I let out a laugh that was a little shaky, letting a tear spill down my cheek. He wiped it with his thumb, eyes fixed on mine like he was trying to create a living memory of me that would last the ten days that would feel like a lifetime.
“You’ll survive,” I teased. “Barely.”
I stood, tugging him gently by the hand. “Come on.”
He let me pull him up, looming behind me, warm hands finding my hips like muscle memory.
“I’m going to need to tell Moira at work on Tuesday that I shagged a Wimbledon champion.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kate
Monday
I must’ve cried twice already. Maybethree times. I’d lost count somewhere around Swindon.
The train to Cardiff was quiet, and I let the steady noise of the tracks lull me into a half-dream. Ten days. That’s all I’d be home for before flying out, meeting him in Washington when the US tour kicked off in August.
I stared down at my wrist, turning the silver bracelet over in my fingers again and again. A Tiffany bracelet. A bloody Tiffany bracelet he’d handed me in bed this morning.
It was small and delicate, a simple tennis bracelet that glinted when it caught the light. It was beautiful, understated, and classic. It was me, and he knew it.
I’d told him it was too much. Too expensive. He just shook his head, kissed my bare shoulder and murmured, “It’s not enough, Katie. Not even close. Not for how I feel.”
That’s when I’d cried again. Properly cried. The kind of tears you don’t even try to stop because something inside you just breaks.
I touched the little clasp again now, half-smiling through the ache in my chest. As if I was ever going to forget this week.
