40-Love - Olivia Dade Page 0,23
however, so I’ll allow it.”
His heart nearly exploded before she completed her cupcake-eating process for the second time and used a wet wipe on her hands.
Then she leaned forward, and the cleavage on display made it hard to swallow. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this. Your head is big enough as it is.”
He opened his mouth.
“Yes, yes, I know.” She flicked her hand in dismissal. “Let’s just assume you already made a joke about the monstrous size of your penis yet again.”
He smirked at her. “Oh, it’s no joke, Tess.”
“For God’s sake, Karlsson, I’m trying to give you a compliment.”
His mouth opened again.
“Not about your penis.” She raised that single, expressive brow. “Do you want to hear what I was going to say or not?”
He leaned back and spread his arms. “Have at it, Dunn.”
With a little, self-deprecating shake of her head, she said, “I arrived early to our date so I could observe the last few minutes of your lesson with that young couple.”
She had? He hadn’t spotted her. Then again, he’d have guessed she was more likely not to show up at all than to show up early. Also, both members of that young couple were the same age as him, but he wasn’t going to mention that. Not for any amount of money.
Then she proceeded to knock a few more foundations out from beneath him. “I was beyond impressed. You’re an excellent teacher. Organized, knowledgeable, articulate, and able to break complicated processes down into simple, understandable components. Respectful but friendly. Authoritative without being an ass about it. And from our few encounters, I know you’re clearly very intelligent. The resort is lucky to have you, Lucas, despite your automatic flirtiness and”—she crooked her fingers—“al fresco shenanigans.”
His mouth was open again, but not to say something. In shock.
An unfamiliar pressure was clogging his throat, provoking an odd prickle in his sinuses, the physical manifestations of a burgeoning emotion he didn’t quite recognize. Maybe because he hadn’t felt it for a couple of years now, not in reference to something outside his athletic or sexual prowess. Never in reference to…him. All of him.
“I hope you enjoy your work. But if you don’t, you could do pretty much anything, given the right training.” She waited, but he didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. “Do you? Enjoy your work, I mean?”
A quick glance down at his tennis shoes, then at his watch, allowed him to gather himself.
“Uh…” He cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware of her scrutiny. “I have another lesson soon, unfortunately. Let me clean up while I answer that.”
She rose to her feet. “I’ll help.”
They worked together to gather the detritus of their meal with surprising ease. And as they stacked containers, deposited trash in the appropriate bin, and consolidated leftovers, he tried to give her an honest response to her question.
“I love tennis. Always have, from the first time I held a racket at four years old.” The glass bottles of sparkling soda went into the recycling container, and he took care not to break them. “Teaching is usually fun too, although—”
Damn. He probably shouldn’t admit that.
She was watching him from beside the trash bin. “Go ahead. Say whatever it is you were going to say.”
“All right.” Hopefully she wouldn’t be offended. “I usually prefer lessons with intermediate or advanced students.”
She inclined her head in understanding, no evidence of offense in sight. “I’m not surprised. As I know from personal experience, you’re great even with rank amateurs. I’m sure advanced students are more of a challenge, though. And with them, you’re not wasting all the tennis expertise stored in that sharp brain of yours.”
Her words struck him silent. Again.
Talented teacher. Expertise. Sharp brain.
Something was cracking inside him.
It kind of felt like his heart. Or at least something that had surrounded his heart for way, way too long.
After tucking the last few containers of leftovers inside his bag, she zipped it up and joined him near the sturdy wooden rail. “Are you here indefinitely as the resort’s tennis guru? Or is it more of a contract-to-contract sort of situation?”
Below them, the startlingly blue ocean rushed toward the rocks in rhythmic pulses, the impact spraying water high into the air, while seagulls circled and called to one another. In the distance lay white sands and a plethora of sunscreen-covered tourists, as well as the courts where he spent virtually all his waking hours. Beyond that, the clubhouse beckoned, with the shop below and his barren apartment upstairs—the latter full of furniture and notes