I straddled the sides of the machine and hit stop, tugging off my headphones. Without a word, I picked up my phone, opened the article, and held it out.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Ah. That.”
“Yes, that.”
“So…guess the media’s decided we’re official then.” His mouth curved wryly. “How do you feel about that?”
I folded my arms, heat prickling under my skin. “Honestly? I hate the attention. I didn’t sign up for this bit.”
“Yeah.” He nodded slowly, jaw ticking. “I know. And if I could shield you from it, I would.”
He reached out, tugging the hem of my shorts and pulling me closer until I was standing in the V of his legs. His hands found my waist like they’d been waiting for me all over again, even though he’d only been gone a couple of hours.
“It pisses me off,” I muttered, “that they think they get to define what this is. That they can plaster your face next to mine and turn it into gossip.”
My arms softened, dropping to loop around his neck. “But…” I tipped my chin up, eyes meeting his, voice low. “The part where I’m in love with you? That bit? That’s more than okay.”
His smile widened slowly, like I’d just handed him the world. He kissed me, lingering and sure, before pressing his forehead to mine.
“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured.
“Lucky me,” I whispered back, warmth flooding my chest.
Then his gaze dipped as he followed a bead of sweat sliding down the valley of my breasts. His grin turned wicked.
“You know…” His lips brushed my jaw, his voice dropping. “Gym’s empty. Bet that bench over there could take our weight.”
I laughed, tilting my head toward the security camera blinking red in the corner. “Pretty sure the hotel might have some opinions about that.”
He groaned. “Yeah, that’d definitely make front page.” Then he spun me lightly, smacking my backside with a playful crack. “Come on, woman. I’m about to combust at the thought of anyone else seeing you looking like this.”
I squealed, cheeks flushed, pulse racing. God, he never failed to drive me wild.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kate
Jordan didn’t winthe title in Montreal, but he made the final.
A top-four finish was huge, especially on hard courts. I was so stupidly proud. Watching him tear it up out there like he belonged, holding his own under pressure, brushing off nerves like they couldn’t touch him. Chris called it his best hard-court performance of the year.
But with every match, the spotlight grew hotter.
There were more headlines, more gossip, more speculation.
Who is Jordan Taylor’s new mystery woman? British psychologist turned courtside WAG?
Jesus, how did they even get that information?
I tried to laugh it off. Gwen texted every day with memes and emotional pep talks. Maggie was a steady anchor, always calm, always warm. And Jordan…Jordan was everything. He’d slip an arm around my waist when the cameras crowded in, cut in before a reporter could ask something personal, steer me toward the car like it was second nature. He kept telling me the gossip was just noise.
But this world wasn’t built for me. I was used to quiet spaces and messy emotions. Not camera flashes and designer name tags.
Tonight was the players’ dinner, semi-formal, full of ATP politics and sponsor smiles. I hadn’t planned on going. Jordan didn’t push, but Maggie had gently insisted.
“You want people to know you’re not just passing through,” she said, pinning her hair up as I curled mine. “Just go and have fun. Let them see for themselves why he’s serious about you.”
I hadn’t packed for anything like this. The nicest thing I had was the navy dress I wore in Wimbledon that I’d thrown in on a whim. But Jordan took one look at it and shook his head.
