Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
“I was going to get changed and head straight to the court, actually.”
“Nonsense.” She forces my hand, literally, and guides me over to the tennis coach extraordinaire.
“Tyler.” He beams at me, his super white teeth blinding me, framed by lips he clearly doesn’t keep covered while he’s baking on the sunbed. “Good to see you, son.”
Son? I swallow down my retort and take his offered hand, squeezing a bit too tightly, my lips straight. “Likewise.” I release him quickly and turn to my smiling mother, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll see you for drinks after I’m done.”
“Okay, darling. Have fun.”
I stride off. Oh yes, I’ll have fun. Pretending the tennis ball is Ted’s head. The curl of my lip is unmoving as I make my way to the changing rooms and the whole time I’m getting changed.
“Yo, Tyler.”
I turn at the call of my name and find Rich, one of the club’s real coaches, tying the laces of his trainers. “Hey, Rich.” I dip and start to tie my own. “How you doing?”
“All good, my friend. Up for a few smashes over the net?”
“Why, do you think I need the lessons?” I ask, a little affronted.
“No, I think I need some man time, actually.” He collects his racket and spins it expertly.
I laugh. “Then let’s go smash some balls.”
Rich ducks, his head narrowly missing the ball I’ve just slugged across the net. “Jesus, Ty.”
“Again,” I shout, widening my stance and dipping, swaying from side to side, spinning my racket in my grasp.
“What’s up with you today?” he asks, throwing a ball into the air and launching it toward me.
I watch it coming at me and pull my racket back, injecting force into my return with a grunt. “Advantage Ty,” I pant as it goes sailing past him and lands just inside the line.
He shakes his head and gets ready for another serve, tossing the ball in his hand. I prepare myself again, loving the consistent feel of impact that rides up my arm each time I whack the ball. This is stress relief at its best. I wipe my brow and watch as Rich’s racket connects with the ball on a thwack, but as I draw back, ready to return it, something catches my eye past the caging of the court. My arm lowers, and I stand tall, zooming in on the patio beyond Rich. What the fuck? I start to pace forward.
“Ty!” Rich’s warning comes too late, and I’m halted in my tracks by a ball square to my forehead.
“Fuck.” I stagger back as it bounces off, my racket hitting the ground in quick succession. “Rich, what the hell?” My hand comes up to my head and rubs furiously, my eyes blinking the stars from my vision.
“Oh shit.” Rich leaps the net and runs toward me, and in my disorientated state, I swing my fist out in anger, missing him by a mile and sending myself stumbling across the court.
“Hey, it was a fucking accident.”
I shake my head and then notice Rich armed with his racket, keeping a wary distance. “You fucking twat,” I mutter, gathering myself and turning toward the clubhouse, my eyes scanning the area for what had me losing my focus in the first place. There’s nothing. No Lainey. But I saw her, I fucking know I saw her.
I stalk out of the court and make my way to the patio, leaving a bemused Rich calling after me. I know she’s been on my mind, but seeing things? I’m not that fucking mad. I ignore my mother when I pass her table, my focus on the clubhouse, my eyes scanning every nook and cranny for her.
“Hey, Ty,” a female says excitedly as I prowl on, ignoring the fact that she’s stopped to talk. I break into the bar, finding only a few people scattered around. But no Lainey. I pull to a stop, the adrenaline urging me forward now twitching my muscles. She’s been a constant in my brain from the second I encountered her in Long Bar. Her face has flashed through my mind every time I’ve closed my eyes, and sometimes even when I’ve had them wide open. I’ve imagined her in every position known to man—in my bed, on my desk, up every wall. Lainey Summer has got under my skin and now—even after I’ve had her—it’s itching like fucking crazy. “Damn woman,” I mutter to myself, pivoting to leave the bar.
I don’t get very far. Approximately two paces, if you want specifics. Because I spot her through the window on the terrace with a glass of wine in her hand . . . and a man opposite her. Another man. Not a man in his late-twenties, not a man in his mid-forties, not a Spanish-looking dude, and not a man pushing sixty. This one must be early-fifties. He’s laughing. She’s smiling. The smile that makes my manly knees go weak.