40-Love - Olivia Dade Page 0,69

Maybe make an early night of it? You can stay here, or I can walk you back to your room, if that would be more comfortable for you.”

Actually, she was beginning to feel more alert than she had all day. “I’m fine. Let’s watch tennis.”

His body relaxed beneath her, and his lazy smile made the warm blanket entirely unnecessary. “Not Bringing Up Baby? I can restart it where you fell asleep. In other words, five minutes into the movie.”

“Sorry about that.” She scrunched her face in apology. “It was a long afternoon, and I’m always tired the first day of my period.”

“I understand, älskling. Don’t worry.” His forefinger smoothed the lines between her eyebrows. “How’s your belly feeling?”

Tentatively, she levered herself up with one arm. “Better, actually. Much better.”

“Alpine-themed booties.” He nodded, his expression suspiciously solemn. “The choice of medical professionals everywhere.”

Ignoring his nonsense, she answered his earlier question. “We can watch Bringing Up Baby another night. I’d like to hear your perspective on the matches we see.”

Wait. Had she been too presumptuous?

She was assuming there would be another night, and maybe—

“Sounds good.” His tone was pleased, not affronted. “But if you get bored, just let me know. We can watch anything you like, or have a snack, or go to bed, or…” He lifted a shoulder. “Whatever you want to do is fine by me.”

When she sat up all the way, they weren’t touching anymore. She rectified that immediately, scooting until her hip pressed against his and she could rest her head against his solid chest. His arm encircled her, cuddling her close, and he began fiddling with her hair again.

Her scalp tingled, and her spine seemed to melt.

He smelled good. Felt better.

Yeah. She could get used to this, too easily.

Not going to think about that now. “Tell me about the players. This match is just about to start, right?”

The women on court were warming up, from what she could tell, hitting balls to one another and practicing their serves while various graphics flashed on the screen, listing their head-to-head record, ages, prize money totals, and other information.

“Within a minute or two, yeah,” Lucas said. “The player on the right is Danielle Forrester, an up-and-coming American. The player on the left is Lilly Tulu.”

At Tess’s inquiring look, he elaborated. “Tulu is a former top-ten player. Swedish. The most accomplished female tennis pro my country has seen for a long time. She’s still all over the tabloids there, even though she’s been recovering from a hip injury for almost a year. We’ve met a few times over the years, but only in passing.”

“What about Forrester?”

He shook his head. “Never met her.”

Forrester had her long, sandy-colored hair bound into a ponytail, and a red sweatband striped her tanned forehead. She bounced around the baseline and called out an occasional laughing comment to some spectators near her side of the court. Her family or coaching staff, Tess presumed.

Tulu, on the other hand, concentrated on her shots with a fierce frown, her black braids bouncing against her slim, impressively sculpted back with every movement. She didn’t glance toward the crowd once, but Tess got the sense Tulu—older than Forrester by four years, according to the graphics—didn’t miss much.

When the chair umpire called time, the women walked back to their benches and took several final gulps of their drinks before the start of the match.

“So your Swedish compatriot is the favorite to win, I assume?”

“Normally.” His brow furrowed as the players took their positions for the opening game. “But her injury may make this a more competitive match than she’d prefer.”

Forrester tossed the first ball in the air and served wide, and Tess and Lucas settled back to watch the close, hard-fought contest. Tulu won the first set, but only barely. The tiebreak ended when her opponent double-faulted, and the Swedish player retreated to her chair by the side of the court, mouth pinched, and downed another bottle of sports drink.

After the coaches finished brief visits with their players, Lucas turned to Tess. “What did you think of the set?”

“They’re incredibly talented.” The honest truth. “Both of them. I can’t even imagine being able to move that way, or hit with that much accuracy.”

“Practice.” Lucas shot her a quick smile. “Lots of training and practice.”

She had nothing more to contribute, despite her enjoyment of what she’d seen. “What are your thoughts about their play so far?”

Eventually, she wanted to hear some behind-the-scenes stories and gossip. But right now, she was more curious about what