Page 4

Chapter 4: Avery

" R emember," Luke murmurs against my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine, "you're remorseful but not defeated. Humble but still confident."

We're backstage at the Melbourne press center, minutes away from my public apology. The navy pencil dress he'd approved feels too tight and too warm. Or maybe that's just his proximity.

"I know how to handle the press," I whisper back, though we both know that's a lie. If I did, we wouldn't be here.

His hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm through the thin fabric. "Just follow my lead."

The touch is for show. We'd discussed acceptable public contact during this morning's contract signing. Hand-holding. Casual touches. A chaste kiss now and again. Nothing too intimate, but my body doesn't seem to have gotten the memo.

"Ready?" His thumb traces a small circle against my back.

I nod, not trusting my voice. He guides me toward the conference room, his hand never leaving my back. The familiar click of cameras greets us, along with the surprised murmurs at seeing Luke Mitchell at my side.

He pulls out my chair, the perfect gentleman. As I sit, his fingers brush my shoulder, another calculated move, I'm sure. Everything about Luke is calculated.

"Good afternoon," I start, voice steadier than I feel. "I want to address my behavior at the Australian Open."

Luke sits close enough that our thighs almost touch under the table. I feel his presence, making it hard to focus on my prepared statement. When I falter slightly, his hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently.

The gesture should be comforting. Professional. Instead, it sends heat racing through my body, remembering other things those hands can do.

"I let my frustrations get the better of me," I continue, forcing myself to focus. "My actions were unprofessional and disrespectful to the sport I love."

His thumb strokes my knuckles as I speak. Up and down. Slow. Rhythmic. Maddening.

The questions start flying as soon as I finish my statement.

"Will you be appealing the fine?"

"Have you spoken to your former sponsors?"

"What's your plan moving forward?"

Luke leans forward, all cool confidence. "Miss Jenkins is focused on getting back to what she does best - playing world- class tennis. We're in talks with several interested sponsors who understand that one moment doesn't define a career."

"And what's your role in this, Mr. Mitchell?"

His hand tightens on mine. "I'm representing Miss Jenkins moving forward. We believe in her potential for a strong comeback."

"Is that all you're representing?" Someone calls out. "You two seem close."

This is it. The moment we planned. But I'm not prepared for Luke to turn to me, his eyes dark with something that looks too real to be acting. I’m definitely not ready for how his free hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my bottom lip.

"Should we tell them?" he asks, voice pitched low enough that the microphones barely catch it.

I manage a small nod, pulse racing. We'd rehearsed this. A quick, tasteful kiss. Something to get the cameras clicking.

His mouth meets mine, and every carefully laid plan goes up in flames.

His lips are soft but demanding, coaxing mine apart with practiced skill. I gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss just enough to make it clear this isn't just for show. His tongue teases mine, a brief hot slide that sends electricity shooting through my body.

My free hand finds his chest, meaning to push him away. Instead, my fingers curl into his expensive suit jacket, pulling him closer. He groans, low in his throat, a sound I remember from Miami, a sound that makes heat pool low in my belly.

The cameras are going crazy, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is the taste of him, the feel of his hand sliding into my hair, the way his teeth graze my bottom lip.

He pulls back first, but not far. Our breath mingles as we stare at each other, both slightly dazed. His pupils are dilated, lips slightly swollen. I probably look worse.

"I guess that answers that question," he says with a smirk, turning back to the press, but his voice is rougher than usual.

The room erupts with questions:

"How long has this been going on?"

"Is this why you've taken her on as a client?"

"Miss Jenkins, is this just for the publicity?”

Luke handles them smoothly, spinning our story while I try to remember how to breathe. His hand stays linked with mine, but now it feels like a brand, every point of contact burning.

"We reconnected recently," he's said.

I should be paying attention, but all I can think about is that kiss, and how it was supposed to be pretend but felt anything but.

"I think that's enough questions for today," Luke announces finally. He stands, pulling me up with him. "Miss Jenkins needs to focus on her training."

The reporters keep shouting questions as he guides me out, his hand back on my lower back. This time, the touch feels possessive. Hungry.

In the privacy of the hallway, I round on him. "What was that?"

"That," he says, straightening his tie with his free hand, "was making it convincing."

"That wasn't what we rehearsed."

His eyes drop to my mouth again. "No, it wasn't."

We stare at each other, the air crackling between us. I'm acutely aware of how close we're standing, and how easy it would be to grab his tie and pull him down for another kiss.

"Your lipstick's smudged," he says, breaking my thoughts.

I swipe at my mouth. "Whose fault is that?"

He catches my wrist, thumb pressing against my racing pulse. "It will be worth it for the headlines we'll get."

Right. Headlines. This is all for show. All business. So why does his touch feel like something more?

"I should go," I manage. "Training, like you said."

He releases my wrist slowly, fingers dragging across my skin. "Dinner tonight. For the cameras."

"Fine." I step back, needing distance. "But next time, stick to the script."

His laugh follows me down the hallway. "Now where's the fun in that?"

As I head to the locker room to change, my phone buzzes with notifications. The kiss is already trending. Luke's plan is working perfectly.

So why do I feel like I'm the one who just lost control of the game?