Page 3

Chapter 3: Avery

T here's something depressing about eating ice cream straight from the carton in a hotel room while watching your career implode. I dig my spoon deeper into the chocolate chunk, trying to ignore the footage playing on repeat.

"In her latest meltdown, former French Open champion Avery Jenkins showed once again why sponsors are distancing themselves..."

I click through channels, but it's everywhere. Tennis Channel. Sports Center. Even the local news. Each replay makes me cringe. The racquet throw looks worse than I remember, and did I really flip off that entire section of the crowd?

My phone buzzes again. Probably another reporter. Or my agent, ex-agent now, with more bad news. I've been avoiding calls all day, hiding out. The championship suite I'd booked at the Hilton seems like a bad joke now.

A knock at the door makes me jump, sending ice cream dripping onto my oversized t-shirt.

"Miss Jenkins?" A male voice. Familiar. "Your agent, or should I say, ex-agent, said you were in here."

I frown. I know that voice. That deep, slightly raspy timbre that had whispered filthy promises against my skin one hot Miami night.

"Go away, Luke."

"I can't do that." Another knock. "We need to talk business."

"I'm not decent." It's true. Between the stained shirt, ratty shorts, and day-old mascara tracks, I'm about as far from decent as possible.

"I've seen worse."

You've seen better , I think, remembering how his eyes had devoured me in that black dress.

No. Not going there.

"Five minutes," he says. "That's all I'm asking."

I consider my options. Hide in here until my savings run out, then slink home to teach tennis to bored housewives? Or hear what Luke Mitchell, rising star agent and former whatever he was, has to say?

"Fine." I open the door but block the entrance. "Talk."

He looks exactly like I remember, damn him. Perfectly tailored suit that emphasizes broad shoulders. That subtle five o'clock shadow he always had by evening. Eyes that see too much.

His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my disheveled state. One eyebrow lifts. "Love the outfit."

"Four minutes now."

He holds up his hands in surrender, but I catch the ghost of a smirk. "Can I come in? Unless you want to discuss your future in the hallway?"

I step aside, suddenly aware of every flaw in the cramped room. The unmade bed. The empty ice cream carton. The tennis bag I'd thrown against the wall earlier.

Luke closes the door and leans against it. "You're trending on socials."

"Thanks for the update. Is that all?"

"Number one in Australia. Number three worldwide." He loosens his tie, a gesture that shouldn't be distracting but is. "The video's got ten million views."

"Fantastic. I'll add it to my resume while I'm applying for jobs at the local tennis club."

"Or," he pushes off from the door, "you could let me help you turn this around."

I laugh, but it comes out bitter. "Right. Because you're such a charitable guy."

"I never claimed to be." He moves closer, and I catch a hint of his cologne, expensive, subtle, maddeningly familiar. "I'm a businessman. I see an opportunity, I take it."

"And I'm your opportunity?"

His eyes darken slightly. "You could be. If you're smart about this."

"About what, exactly?"

"A partnership." He pulls out his phone, starts scrolling. "Your ranking's slipping. Sponsors are bailing. You need someone who can rebuild your image, and get you back in the game."

"And you need?"

"A breakthrough client." No pretense, at least. "Someone who'll get attention, make headlines for the right reasons this time."

I cross my arms. "So you want to be my agent? Thanks, but I think I'd rather teach tennis to toddlers."

"Not just your agent." He meets my eyes. "Your boyfriend."

The word hangs in the air between us. I wait for the punchline.

"You're joking."

"Think about it." He starts pacing, energy radiating off him. "The bad girl of tennis, tamed by her former rival and now agent. It's a story the media can't resist, they’ll eat it up."

"You want us to fake date?" The idea is absurd. Insane. Completely….possible?

"Two months." He stops in front of me. "That's all I'm asking. Long enough to change the narrative, get sponsors interested again. You focus on your game; I'll handle the PR."

"And what do you get out of this? Besides commission?"

"Partnership track at the agency. I land this, prove I can handle high-profile clients." He shrugs. "Everyone wins."

I turn away, needing distance from his intensity and from the memories his proximity stirs up. "And what happens when people realize it's fake?"

"They won't." His voice drops lower. "Because we'll make it convincing."

Heat crawls up my neck. "Like Miami?"

The air changes, and I hear him step closer but don't turn around.

"Miami was real." His voice rough now. "This would be business."

"Right." I face him, chin lifted. "Just business."

His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second. "Exactly."

"And there'd be rules?"

"Of course." He takes another step closer. I hold my ground. "Professional boundaries. Clear expectations. Everything in writing."

"No touching?"

The corner of his mouth lifts. "In public, enough to be convincing. In private, we can do whatever you need."

Whatever I need. Holy moly.

"In private, nothing." I need to make this clear, even as my body remembers exactly how his touches feel. "This is a business arrangement."

"Agreed." But his eyes say something different. "Do we have a deal?"

I should say no, kick him out and figure this out on my own. Instead, I find myself saying.

"Two months," I say finally. "That's it. After that, we go our separate ways."

"Perfect." He pulls out a business card, sets it on the TV stand. "Come by my hotel tomorrow. We'll draw up the contracts."

"Fine."

He moves to the door, then pauses. "Wear something professional. For the cameras."

"I know how to dress myself."

"Yeah." His eyes drag over me one last time, lingering on my bare legs. "You do."

The door closes behind him, but his presence lingers. I grab the ice cream carton, now completely melted.

Two months. I can handle two months of fake dating Luke Mitchell. I've handled worse.

As I head to the shower, I can't shake the feeling that I'm about to play the riskiest game of my career. This time, love definitely means something.