40-Love - Olivia Dade Page 0,15

hitched with his next breath. Maybe I could change mine too.

He rested his elbows on the net and leaned forward, his legs oddly shaky beneath him.

“First, tell me something, Tess. Are you interested in having lunch together? Tomorrow?” When her mouth opened, he rushed to clarify. “Not in my apartment. At a restaurant or outside. Wherever you want.”

She took four slow steps toward the net, halting just out of arm’s reach.

Those hazel eyes were hard to read, especially in the limited light, but they weren’t narrowed with suspicion or outrage. She wasn’t shaking her head, either. Wasn’t telling him he didn’t mean the invitation, or that it was automatic.

Which it wasn’t. Nothing concerning Tess was automatic or easy, and despite himself, he liked it. Liked her. That insistent prickling at the nape of his neck be damned.

“I…” Her hard swallow shifted the shadows delineating her throat. “I’m busy tomorrow. Belle and I planned out the entire day weeks ago.”

Her birthday. Dammit, he’d forgotten.

“The day after tomorrow, then.” He kept pushing, determined to make definite plans before she had too much time to think. Hell, before he had too much time to think. “We’ll do a picnic. Meet me outside the clubhouse, and I’ll take care of everything.”

She was wavering. Tense and uncertain. He could see it in the way her soft mouth pursed and released, hear it in the crackle of the water bottle compressing in her grip.

“Please, Tess.”

Why was he pleading with her? If he wanted female company, he had plenty of options. Options who didn’t respond to flirtation with an eyeroll and a truculent chin-raise. Options who’d accept an invitation to lunch without—

“Okay.” Two soft syllables, spoken with a firm little nod.

As relief wobbled in his knees, he leaned more heavily on the net. “Can you do a late lunch? Half-past one?”

A tentative smile tilted her lips. “That should w—”

“Hey, tennis boy! Did you get our texts?”

The shout from outside the court made Tess jerk, her shoulders stiffening. Seemingly on instinct, she backed several steps away from the net. Away from him.

Fuck. The moment was gone, and if he gave her half a chance to consider all the reasons he wasn’t a good bet for a woman like her, she’d retreat from their lunch date too.

He swung to face the interloper, his brows drawn together in warning. “Brendan, no one’s supposed to interrupt my lessons. That includes fellow employees.”

Brendan raised his hands, palms out. “Sorry, dude. You never work this late, so I thought this was, uh…” He scratched the back of his head as he considered his wording, jostling the brim of his backward-turned baseball cap. “An off-the-clock situation.”

Lucas’s glance at his watch confirmed his colleague’s claim. His lesson with Tess had run way past its official end time. And fuck, she was eyeing the exit nearest the clubhouse, her expression guarded once more.

If he climbed over the net to her side of the court, would that reassure her? Or make her run? “Look, Brendan, can we—”

The other man was still talking. “—won’t do it again. But as long as I’m here, I might as well tell you. A bunch of us are heading to Emma’s place on the mainland to watch the game. I heard she made meatballs in the slow-cooker, so it’ll basically be like home for you, only with less furniture assembled via Allen wrenches.”

A faint snort from the other side of the net heartened Lucas.

He caught Brendan’s eye and nodded toward the clubhouse, his message clear: Get out. “Despite that heart-warming homage to my homeland, I can’t—”

This time, Tess interrupted him. “You should go. I need to get back to work, anyway.” She walked to his bag and laid her racket on top. “Besides, if you ask nicely, I bet they’d even play ‘Dancing Queen’ for you.”

He sighed. “Haha. ABBA jokes. Very creative.”

“Thank you. I accept that compliment with the same sincerity with which it was offered.” She shot him a half-hearted grin and walked toward the exit. “Have a good night, boys.”

Boys. Yeah. That was not a promising sign.

“Tess…” He trailed off, unsure whether having her confirm their date would instead give her an opening to cancel it. “You don’t have to go.”

“I really do,” she called over her shoulder.

It was a risk, but he needed to know. Needed that confirmation.

Just before she left the court, he spoke loudly enough to carry across the distance. “Half-past one, pigtails. The day after tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

Her brisk stride faltered, and he braced himself.

Then she