40-Love (There's Something About Marysburg Book 2)

by Olivia Dade

  She didn’t hesitate. “Get fired. Probably within hours.”

  After a final pat of his arm, she departed the clubhouse, and the lock clicked into place with a jingle of her keys.

  “I think your amorous exploits have traumatized your coworkers.” Tess sent him a chiding look. “No wonder her hair is completely grey. Mine probably will be too before I leave the island.” She tugged the bottom of a pigtail, eyeing it carefully. “I think I have more greys already. I blame our encounter earlier today.”

  He’d noticed a few sparkly threads glinting in her hair that morning. Noticed and marveled at how unexpectedly pretty they were.

  “That wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. I like the little bits of silver you have. They look like…” What was the best way to describe it? “Against your dark hair, they’re like stars in the night sky.”

  He nodded, pleased with himself.

  She didn’t appear impressed. “Bullshit.”

  “Believe me or don’t. I’m fine either way.” He shrugged away an unexpected twinge in his chest. “But for what it’s worth, I’m telling the truth.”

  “Maybe.” She’d bitten her lower lip again. It was red, and he could see the mark of her teeth. “But you can only romanticize my grey hairs because you’re in no danger of getting some anytime soon.”

  Whatever. This was way too much effort expended on something that wasn’t going anywhere. Not even to bed.

  Turning back to the rackets, he scanned the offerings. “Let me take a look at your hands. We need to figure out the best grip size.”

  He’d expected her to hold them up in the air, so he could evaluate their length. Instead, she placed her right hand on top of his, where it was braced against the wall.

  Was this an unspoken apology for her momentary snappishness? Or…something else?

  Her mind, her motivations, were too complicated for the likes of him. He was lost.

  In contrast, the feel of her was simple. Her palms were yielding and cushiony, her fingers uncallused against the backs of his. Warm. So warm.

  “See? They’re big. Not as big as yours”—she cast him a dampening look—“and no, I don’t want to hear what you’re about to say in response to that. But my hands are large for a woman, probably because I’m so tall.”

  She was tall compared to the average woman. Using American units of measurement, maybe a couple inches short of six feet. But compared to female tennis pros like Venus Williams or Petra Kvitová, her height wasn’t particularly notable. And he’d grown up in the land of Valkyries and Vikings, so tall women were hardly a novelty for him.

  He turned over his hand beneath hers so they could compare lengths palm-to-palm.

  It felt electric, like every brush of skin they’d had to this point.

  “I’m six-six. At least eight inches taller than you.” When she was looking straight ahead, he could stare down at the part in her hair. To make eye contact, she had to tip that pugnacious chin high, like she was doing now. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a munchkin.”

  Then he slid his hand from beneath hers and walked a few steps away.

  Even if she’d initiated contact once again, even if she hadn’t pulled away from his touch, he needed to heed her spoken wishes. She didn’t want him. He, in turn, didn’t want their undeniable physical chemistry to confuse him or encourage him to intrude where he wasn’t welcome.

  And the skin at his nape was beginning to prickle, like it did when a game, a set, a match was starting to slip through his fingers.

  He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t need to.

  It was uncomfortable, and he didn’t do uncomfortable anymore.

  “Come on,” he told her. “Let’s choose a racket, grab a few balls, and get going.”

  Four

  By the time they’d locked the clubhouse door behind them and reached the nearby courts, Lucas had regained his customary equanimity.

  He’d flirt. Maybe she’d flirt back and touch him again. Maybe she wouldn’t.

  Then they’d part ways at the end of the lesson, no harm done, and he’d need to make his usual decision: Did he intend to spend the night alone? Or with company?

  He could retreat to his apartment and search for something vaguely interesting on Netflix. He could call his friend Nick, who should be on a rare break between tournaments right now. He could find some of the other resort employees and ask whether they wanted to catch the ferry to the mainland for a late dinner or a drink. Or he could rifle through the room and cell numbers he’d been offered that week and opt for some undemanding female companionship.

  Either way, he could relax and enjoy himself. Just like he did every day.

  Just as he intended to do for the rest of this lesson.

  Tess walked beside him, clutching her borrowed racket and a can of balls. “When I asked you why you came to the island, why didn’t you tell me you worked here?”

  Tess, he’d found, didn’t do undemanding. Yet another reason to keep her at a distance, no matter how unexpectedly interesting and charming he found her.

  “I didn’t think it was important.” If he’d also wanted to hedge his bets, to ensure knowledge of his job didn’t nudge her memory banks and make her recognize him, that wasn’t important either. “Besides, I told you the main reasons I came here. Sun. Water. Sand. Relaxation. Everything I need.”

  “You forgot women.” Her voice was as dry as the sand he’d just mentioned.

  He grinned at her. “I never forget women. Female companionship falls under the category of relaxation. And occasionally sun, sand, or water, depending on her level of adventurousness.”

  She raised that single, devastating brow. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been arrested.”

  “As long as the parties involved are willing, located on the adults-only side of the beach, and not visible to other guests, security tends to turn a blind eye to al fresco shenanigans.” Keeping his racket under his arm, he dumped his bag of water bottles and towels by the end of the court. “So there’s no real danger of arrest. It’s all pretty routine.”

  Her brow rose higher. “Routine? How thrilling your assignations must be.”

  “I don’t need police intervention to make things exciting.” He shook his head at her. “Trust me on that. And speaking of exciting—”

  “Oh, Lord.” She flicked her gaze heavenward. “Here we go.”

  “What?” He held up his hands, widening his eyes to approximate innocent confusion. “I was just going to offer to help you with your serve.”

  “And that’s exciting…how, exactly?”

  “Because a good serve can win you a lot of free points or set you up for success later in a rally.” He gestured toward her empty hand. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something?”

  The corners of her mouth had tucked inward as she fought a smile. “So that’s why you consider teaching me to serve exciting. Because of the possibility of winning free points. Not because doing so might involve physical contact?”

  Well, he couldn’t say he hadn’t been looking forward to that aspect of the job.

  Still, he tsked. “That would never have occurred to me. Assistant Principal Dunn, shame on you. You have a filthy mind.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said. “It doesn’t really matter, though. I don’t want you to work with my serve.”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  She waved her racket dismissively. “I just don’t see the point of perfecting my serve when, given my track record, I probably won’t play again for a few years. Possibly ever. So spending time to improve my form doesn’t make any sense. Instead, why don’t we just hit the ball around a bit? I can get some exercise, and you can…” Her laugh rang through the court, plumping her cheeks and striking sparks from her eyes. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Which is, I suspect, both your preference and your custom.”

  That was unfair. He didn’t always do what he wanted. Like right now, for instance, when he really wanted to taste the
echo of that laugh on her lips.

  “If a little leisurely hitting is what you want, that’s what you’ll get.” He gestured toward the far end of the court. “Why don’t you take that side, since there’s less glare from the overhead lights there?”

  “Sure.” She handed him the can of balls and rambled over to the other side, her hips swaying in a very distracting way.

  If he didn’t get out his final question now, that hypnotic sway would make him forget it entirely. “How much do you want to run?”

  “Not much. My knee can’t handle it.” She stretched her arms—and racket—to the sky, twisting from side to side. “Such are the travails of middle age, as you’ll eventually discover.”

  He frowned at her. “There are professional tennis players only a couple years younger than you ranked within the top ten. Hell, the top five. Thirty-nine isn’t exactly one step from the grave, and it’s not that far distant from twenty-six.”

  “Oh, come on.” She positioned her feet shoulder-width apart and bent down, stretching her hamstrings. “We share zero cultural touchstones. When I was growing up, New Kids on the Block were the boy band du jour. I had their poster on my wall. What was your era’s equivalent? Backstreet Boys? *NSYNC? Or did they not make it to Sweden?”

  He grabbed a couple balls, slipped one in his pocket, and bounced the other against the acrylic-covered concrete. “A Swede wrote and produced songs for both groups, so yeah. They were big there. But that happened when I was…I don’t know. Six? Eight?”

  “Years too young for even a glimpse of puberty.” She snorted. “You’re a kid.”

  “Hey, at least I was too old for One Direction. That should give you some comfort.”

  This time, when he bounced the ball, he hit it toward her. Even that faint impact zinged through his overworked wrist, but as always, the ping of the ball against the sweet spot of his racket soothed the sting.

  The ball landed precisely where he’d intended, just within reach of her racket. She promptly hit it into the net. But when she sighed and strode toward it, he waved her off.

  “This time, don’t move forward quite so far. You want to stay behind the bounce, so when you hit the ball, it’s in front of you. And don’t try to hit it so hard. Let the racket do some of the work for you.” He retrieved the ball from his pocket and bounced it a few times. “I know you don’t care about technique, but even a friendly rally isn’t fun if you can’t get the ball over the net.”

  She nodded, her brows drawn together. “Got it.”

  Another easy shot that landed a couple steps away from her. “I’m not certain whether the reigning boy bands of different eras should be considered cultural touchstones or any meaningful gauge of compatibility.”

  This time, she shanked her forehand, and the ball flew off to the side.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “Sorry.”

  “You haven’t played in a long time. A little rustiness is to be expected.” He emptied the final ball from the can. “Be sure to swing from your shoulders, not your elbows or wrists. I don’t want you injuring yourself. And picture yourself swinging through the ball, not at it.”

  She clutched her racket tighter, deep lines carving across her forehead.

  Damn. She was supposed to be enjoying herself.

  “Listen…” He climbed over the net and dropped the ball in her left hand. “Why don’t you take the first shot?”

  Her fingers closed around the ball, and her face brightened. “That might work better. I like having a little more control.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “No shit.”

  “I make no apologies. There’s a reason I intend to become principal soon.” After a couple of experimental bounces of the ball against the ground, those lines on her forehead eased, and a faint smile curved her generous mouth. “So if boy bands aren’t a good cultural touchstone, what would be? Famous movies? Internet and social media trends?”

  She caught the ball in her left hand, holding her racket away from her body with her right. “Because I hate to tell you this, but my family didn’t get a computer until I was about eight, and I didn’t send my first e-mail until I was in high school. I’m still not entirely certain what TikTok is, although I assume it involves mechanical timepieces.”

  He wagged his finger at her. “Don’t pretend to be a technological dunce, Tess. Given your job, I’m sure you use all sorts of online educational programs and digital tools, including some I’ve never seen. Am I right?”

  A weird sound emitted from her throat. Something between a growl and a disgruntled hmph. Either way, he knew what it meant: He was right.

  “Maybe,” she finally allowed.

  With a healthy swing—from her shoulder, he was glad to note, although her follow-through was minimal—she sent the ball flying over the net. Way over the net, past the baseline. He scrambled backward to return it, but managed to hit a controlled shot that should land right…

  There. Right in front of her and to her side. This time, she caught the ball in her sweet spot, and it sailed back over the net.

  A real rally. Hallelujah.

  She was still talking, still trying to prove that they had nothing in common. “When I was growing up, if I wanted to listen to a specific song, I couldn’t just go online and find a YouTube video or a good streaming service. I had to listen to the radio for hours on end, recognize the opening bars of the song, hold my little tape recorder next to my radio, and pray my parents wouldn’t make too much noise during the song. Or I’d have to buy the entire album, tape, or CD, depending on how old I was. When I found out about iTunes, I almost cried with joy.”

  He ran to reach a ball that barely cleared the net. “Too law-abiding for Napster’s pirating heyday, huh?”

  “I’m surprised you even remember back that far.” She missed his return, which bounced past her and hit the back of the court with a rattle of boards. When he produced another can of balls from his bag, she held up a hand. “Let’s take a quick break.”

  Obligingly, he dropped a ball in his pocket and leaned on his racket. “As far as Napster, all I can legally tell you is that my older brother had an extensive music collection around the turn of the millennium. And to tackle your broader contention, I would argue that love of music transcends the means by which we acquire it. Also its national origin.”

  “I take it you don’t agree with my choice of relevant cultural touchstones.” A few shiny strands of her hair had fallen free from her pigtails, and she tucked them behind her ears. “In that case, I repeat: What would be good ones, then?”

  He thought for a minute.

  “Much as I hate to say it…international tragedies, maybe? I think we both share some of the same memories, despite our differing ages and nationalities and understandings of the events at the time.” Uncapping a water bottle, he took a sip. Even at night and with an ocean breeze, a Florida summer could suffocate you with humidity. “Or political upheaval. And we’ve both been adults and U.S. residents for the most recent example of that.”

  When he tossed another water bottle over the net, she caught it. “So you’re going with the depressing stuff? I’m surprised at you, Lucas. I thought you were all good times and willing women.”

  All the depressing stuff had exited his life months ago. And good riddance.

  “Oh, I am,” he assured her with a lazy wink. “And I’m not certain any cultural touchstone can really determine how much two people have in common, or whether they’ll be able to understand one another. I would think shared personality traits, interests, and life experiences would be more relevant.”

  “So it’s not the years, it’s the model and the mileage?” Her head tilted as she stared at him, and she took a long time to answer. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but I guess I would probably agree with you.”

  “What? You agree with me?” He gripped the net with both hands and leaned over it, squinting at her. “Who are you? And what have you done with Tess Dunn?”

  She didn’t
answer.

  Something in her eyes had shifted over the past few minutes, while he’d coached her and they’d argued about boy bands and generational landmarks. He wasn’t sure what. But she was evaluating him in a different way, paying closer attention to him and his words than he remembered her doing before.

  He wanted to bask in that attention almost as much as he wanted to run from it.

  “Tess. Hey, Tess.” He waved a hand in her sightline. “Has prolonged exposure to my handsome visage and superb body finally incapacitated you?”

  She didn’t bother to respond to his nonsense, and her eyes remained steady on his face. Studying him. Reading his expressions.

  Then she finally spoke, her voice soft. Vulnerable. “Tell me more about why you’re here, Lucas. For real, this time.”

  God help him, he almost told her. Almost stripped himself bare for her inspection and revisited the corners of his soul he’d shut away for good last year.

  But he wasn’t the same man he’d once been, so his past was no longer relevant. Particularly to a woman who was not only determined to use their age differential as a wedge between them, but also leaving in two weeks.

  She was trouble. Too demanding, too defensive, and too tempting. Any entanglement with her might end quickly, but it could still damage him. He knew it already, and he should heed that warning siren of unease, the visceral instinct that had guided him through countless matches and tournaments.

  Besides, she’d claimed she wasn’t interested in him, so she had no right to demand answers.

  Unless she’d changed her mind?

  If so, maybe…

  His chest 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.