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“But I saw photographs of you and Colby Knight having a bit of fun, you even bungee jumped together.”

I close my eyes and count to two. “It was a thing for charity. My Grandmother made me go in her place.”

He laughs, looking unconvinced. “You didn’t want to spend an evening with the Colby Knight?”

I shrug. “He’s not really my type.”

He looks down at his sweater vest, snickering to himself. “Love, he’s every girl’s type.”

My heartbeat quickens at the term of endearment. Love. It sounds divine coming from his British lips. “Not mine,” I say, my voice coming out all breathy. I swallow and square my shoulders, remembering what Colby said about confidence. My eyes dip down his torso, taking in his lean, narrow waist—accentuated by the vest—then back up to his face.

One of his perfectly shaped blond brows arches slowly. “So,” he says slowly. “You’re not with Colby?”

“No, of course not,” I say defensively.

He smiles at me, it’s a sexy, salacious smile. Then says, “Duly noted.” Then he raises his plain, black coffee toward me and strides out of the coffee shop.

And they say women are confusing. I was pretty clear, and he’s toying with me. But he was flirting! I’m almost sure of it. My Colby lessons are already working.

I type out a text, practically giddy.

Noel

It worked! OMG. He definitely flirted with me.

He never responds.

CHAPTER 13

COLBY

“It’s not working!” I throw my hands up in frustration after our afternoon practice. The guys have lockers near mine, and they all lean in to listen.

“I told her to be confident, even if she ends up being dorky, and then he flirted with her! Flirted! How am I supposed to compete with a British accent?”

“To be clear,” Mitch says, swiping his brow with a towel. “You’re talking about Dr. Dickhead?”

“Obviously! Try to keep up.”

West and Bruce grimace and give each other a Colby-has-gone-mad look.

Remy, always level-headed and wise, offers, “you’re a wealthy professional athlete, you live in a mansion. And according to Sports Illustrated, last year you were the sexiest athlete of the year.”

I bang my head against the frame of my polished wooden cubby, it’s the fancy version of a locker. “That was last year. This year the award goes to Dr. Hawthorne. Who’s also an athlete, apparently.” I remember Noel telling me he went to Uni on a pickleball scholarship and start laughing maniacally.

“He’s an athlete?” Bruce asks.

West folds his arms over his chest. “What does he play?”

I’m still laughing, but manage to squeak out, “pickleball.”

Mitch rolls his eyes. “Oh wow, yeah. He’s some fierce competition indeed.”

My laughter turns into a groan. “And he wears sweater vests, which is Noel’s crack.”

Remy’s face scrunches. “Your girl is a freak.”

West laughs. “That’s some grandpa bullshit right there. Sweaters and pickleball.”