Page 19

IT’S EARLY ENOUGH that the heat has yet to reach oppressive territory, and so we grab a table outside in the shade.

We are both nursing iced coffees with whole milk, and Niko’s dumped a pound of sugar in his, which surprises me. Niko has such a bitter, biting edge to him that I just assumed that was how he liked his coffee, too. But he grabbed the container immediately and dumped it right into his cup, swirling the white crystals around with his straw until they faded into the liquid.

“So is this how you woo all your pretend girlfriends?” I tease, though if I’m being honest, I’m trying to dig around for information. Niko has been a mostly closed book since he arrived here, and everything available about him on the internet is, frankly, boring. I don’t care what his stats were in the 2018–20 ATP season. What I am dying to know is how many people he has slept with, whether he has ever lived with a partner, and what his kinks are. Hell, I’d even settle for knowing boxers or briefs (though I am hoping the answer is boxer briefs).

“Yes, there’s nothing I love more than bringing dates to the same coffee shop as my aunt,” he joked, scooting his chair in just a little bit closer to the table. “It’s a real aphrodisiac.”

Niko is more self-deprecating than I initially gave him credit for, and I decide that I like this about him. He’s secretly got a sense of humor about himself, and the more I get to know him, the more he lets it out.

“Well, now that we’ve gone over that,” I say with a loud sip of my coffee, “let’s cover our bases.”

“Bases, Bex?” He crosses a leg over his knee and relaxes into his chair, eyes on me.

“Just the basic stuff: favorite color, dead person you’d have lunch with, credit score, any secret kinks I should definitely mention to Angela next time.”

I’m poking at him to see if I can get a rise out of him, but he just gives me a sultry half smile, his eyes narrowing in a way that tells me he actually might have a secret kink or two.

Goddamnit.

“Okay,” he drawls, still watching me. It’s the same look I’ve seen him give me during pickleball practices, like I’m a rabbit scurrying across some rocky terrain, and he’s a coyote, trailing just behind, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

“Blue, though I know you were dying for me to say white,” he says.

“You are one hundred percent correct,” I admit.

“I like to wear white,” he clarifies. “It’s just an old habit. But blue is calm. Soothing. I prefer it.”

“So then not lime green?” I ask, and he shudders.

“Definitely not,” he says adamantly with a shake of his head.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

“Lunch date would be Arthur Ashe,” he says, “obviously.”

“He was my dad’s favorite too.” I perk up as I say this, recalling one of the many facts about my father I’d heard from my mom over and over again when I was a kid. She wove my dad into everything, making tidbits about him a part of our everyday conversations, and even though I don’t remember him, something about sharing this with Niko fires up a buzzing warmth in my chest that I know isn’t just the caffeine hitting my bloodstream.

“Credit score—high seven hundreds, thanks to a credit card I forgot to pay off a couple of years ago. I used to crack eight hundred, easily.”

“Still very impressive,” I say, giving him an admiring look.

“And my kink I’ve already told you.” He says this while making direct eye contact with me from across the table. “But in case you don’t remember, it’s that mouth of yours.”

The words sound downright dirty, and I don’t know what else to do but pick up my cup and take a giant sip, and then another. Niko, on the other hand, is still unfazed, giving me his best poker face, hands clasped on the table. “Your turn. Though I assume favorite color is going to be hard for you?”

“Very funny, Mr. Tennis Whites,” I crack.

“I thought you called me Tennis Prince?” he says, and that hooked half smile is back, searing my insides.

“Depends on my mood,” I say with a bratty look. “Okay, so, my favorite color is that mix of orange and pink at sunset, right where the two meet. I don’t know if it has a name, but the closest I’ve ever come to finding it is a burnt sienna crayon.”

“You would know the actual names of crayon colors.” He says this as if it’s something he likes about me.

“Well, then remember that when Angela’s asking about our magical storybook romance. I’m sure she’ll love that detail.”

He drags his hand across his chin in thought.

“How’s this? On our first date, I showed up to the front door of the racquet club with a bouquet of crayons,” he says, his face lighting up as he describes this made-up scenario. I chuckle along, but the image of it is sweeter than I want to admit.

“Credit score has been a journey,” I say. “But I just crossed seven hundred this year.”

“Wait, you forgot dead person you’re taking to lunch.” He says this like it’s urgent information he can’t miss.

“I know the right answer would be to say my mom, but honestly, I think I’d pick Jim Henson.”

“The Muppets guy?” Niko is incredulous.

“He’s an icon!” I say, on defense. “Tell me you’ve seen Fraggle Rock .”

I give him a pleading look, but he shakes his head. “Clearly I’ve missed out on something.”

“Only, like, my entire childhood,” I reply. “My mom never could afford to send me to camp during the summer. So I’d hang out at the club while she worked and watch old episodes of The Muppet Show . It was my childhood dream to be on that show.”

He looks down and types something into his phone. “Wow.” He glances up at me and then back down at the screen. “Now I get why you love to wear color so much.”

He flips his phone around so I can see the video he’s pulled up on his screen. A puppet with bright blue skin bounces on shamrock green felt legs, as hair the color of a cherry slushy bounces around their head. “I think you might be related,” he says with a teasing grin.

I ball up my paper straw wrapper and toss it at him, but I can’t stop laughing.

When our laughter quiets, I realize I have one more question to answer. Why the hell did I think it would be a good idea to joke about kinks? The truth is, I’ve had a fair amount of time to fantasize about different scenarios over the last couple of years and not a ton of time to act upon any of them. The list, dare I say, is sort of long.

“You can’t laugh,” I say, prefacing my confession with a warning.

He holds up three fingers and presses his other hand against his heart as he gives me a solemn nod. “I swear on that Fraggle’s life.”

“Niko!” I scold. “Puppets can’t die. Or at least, not Muppets.”

“Don’t change the subject, Bex,” he warns. “Just tell me. I promise not to yuck your yum.”

“Okay.” I take a deep, anxious breath. “I think it would be like, outside, or sort of in public, where someone might find us? There’s just something that seems so freeing about that.”

He lowers his hands to his lap and, to his credit, doesn’t tease me at all. Instead he just mutters a quick “Noted” and goes back to drinking his iced coffee.

“So,” I say, feeling way more awkward than I did when we sat down, “do we know each other now? Or at least, do we know each other enough to convince Angela that we’re some sort of dynamic power couple?”

“I’m still stuck on those Fraggles,” he says with a sly smile.

“Okay, fine. Then here’s a question.” I tuck my hands under my thighs, pressing my palms into the worn, faded metal bars of my chair. “What do you like about pickleball?”

He lets out a scoff of a laugh but doesn’t answer right away, and I can tell he’s thinking about my question. He dips his head, takes a pull of coffee from his straw, and then stares directly at me.

“I like that it’s actually challenging,” he says finally. “You were right that it’s not the same as tennis, and because of that, it feels new, like a puzzle my brain has to solve. I’m less in my head than I am on the tennis court.”

“Good answer,” I say enthusiastically.

“And,” he says, his voice a little quieter, “my partner’s not half bad either.”

After that, I don’t ask any more questions for the rest of our coffee date.