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I stare at him for a second, my brain running the logistics. “So?” I ask, still not quite grasping the issue. From where I’m sitting, this is a win. His run with Les Mis is winding down, and the universe just delivered his next opportunity on a silver platter. Sure, the timing is messy, but he was heading back across the pond soon anyway. This is just a slight adjustment to his itinerary.

“I know you didn’t invite me, but I wanted to be there for your tournament this weekend.” He lets out a frustrated breath. “If I take the audition, I’ll have to fly back on Sunday morning. I can still come watch you on Saturday, but I’ll miss the rest of the weekend.”

Oh.

My breath catches in my throat.

Now I get it.

It’s not the audition.

He wants to be here. . .with me.

My first instinct is to make it easy for him. To step aside and find a way to fit into his schedule. It’s what I’ve always done.

But looking at the distress in his eyes, I realize he isn’t asking me to. He doesn’t want the easy out.

“Max, hey,” I say, as I stand up and ignore the throb in my ankle. “You’re welcome to come if you want to, but it’s only a local tennis tournament. Not the Olympics. You won’t be missing out on anything. But you. . .you’ve been invited to audition for a brand-new West End show. A shot at being in the opening cast! That’s huge! You have to take it.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. I’d been hoping this weekend might be the one thing that finally went right this month. But hearing him say that he’s considering passing up an audition just to sit in the bleachers and cheer me on? No one’s ever chosen me like that before.

Max studies me for a long moment. His jaw tightens. “I never expected to meet you, Katie,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a rough register that makes the air between us completely still. “And when I did, I thought . . . this is the girl. This is exactly who I’ve been looking for.”

My heart does a violent, erratic kick against my ribs. Heat floods my system. I stare at him, completely paralyzed. All that practical, defensive armor I have just built is dissolving.

“I thought the stars were all aligning,” he continues, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before locking back onto my eyes with a fiery intensity. “When the tour finished, I thought I could stay here and see where things between us went. But now . . . oh bloody hell. Katie, can I kiss you?”

My brain scrambles for a reason to say no. A practical excuse. One last way to protect my heart. But I don’t want to fight it anymore.

“Yes,” I whisper.

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. His hand slides around my waist, his palm warm and firm. He pulls me flush against him as his lips finally meet mine. I let out a small, breathless gasp at the sudden sensation of him, but the sound is immediately swallowed by his mouth.

I wrap my arms around his neck, my palms flat against the solid planes of his shoulders. Even through the thin fabric of his shirt, I can feel the hard, disciplined muscle of a man who spends his life on a stage.

As the kiss deepens, my fingers tangle in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there’s no air left between us. For a second, the world is just the scent of his cologne, the taste of mint, and the dizzying sensation of being held so securely that the ground beneath my feet disappears. My heart isn’t just racing—it’s doing a full-on sprint.

He finally eases back, but he doesn’t let me go. He keeps his forehead pressed against mine, his chest rising and falling in time with my own ragged breathing.

I let out a shaky laugh, my fingers still loosely hooked around his neck, completely dazed.

Max brushes his thumb softly across my cheek, tracing the line of my cheekbone, and under his breath, starts to softly hum “Just the Way You Are.”

And for one reckless second, I let myself wonder what it would be like if this didn’t have an expiration date.

Fourteen

The first thing I do when I pull into the tournament parking lot Friday afternoon is check the time. It’s 4:12 p.m. The qualifying sign-in closes at six. Technically, I have plenty of time. But after my week? I’m not taking chances.

The Coral Bay ITF Tournament is being held at a public tennis complex. Think chain-link fences, faded courts, and no umpires or ball kids. It’s not glamorous, but if I can survive the qualifying rounds, there’s a shot at making it into the main draw. More importantly, a deep run could earn the ranking points I need to sneak into the U.S. Open qualifying draw.

I enter the clubhouse and proceed to the check-in table. Without looking up, a man surrounded by clipboards asks, “Name?”

“Katie Keller.”

“Keller . . . Keller . . .” He scans the list. My stomach tightens. “Ah, here you are.” He flips the board around and points to my name. Number twenty-three. “Initial here and here please.”

I write my initials and slide the board back to him. “The draw and order of play goes up around seven,” the official says.