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YOU’RE LOOKING AT around 50k . Another email from another contractor, quoting me even more than Travis’s estimate.
But that’s not even the worst thing in my inbox. Just below it is a message from Wilson, the subject Selling the club . I click through and scan the first few lines, and immediately regret it.
Please see attached contract my lawyer drew up. Obviously, all can be discussed and modified, but I have a new investor on board who’s hungry to start a pickleball empire and brings cash equity and experience to the table. Plus he comes with a built-in brand.
I drag Wilson’s message to the folder I’ve titled “Stuff to Deal with Later” and drop my head into my hands. Dread doesn’t so much feel like a pit in my stomach as it does an endless tsunami, crashing over and over and over against my heart. It’s a violent shake of the earth, a roar in my ears, so loud I almost miss the familiar thud of one of the doors closing nearby. Growing up at this place means every sound is a core memory, imprinted on my soul. I know without looking that it’s the heavy door that leads out to the courts. What I don’t know is who just opened it.
“Bex?” Niko bellows, and I have my answer. Of course. A bunch of members are attending a seventy-fifth birthday party in town, Deb, Ed, and Loretta among them, and so we are probably the last two people left here.
“Yeah?” I ask, not looking up from my screen. Niko shuffles around the reception desk awkwardly and then comes to stand next to me, giving me no choice but to glance up at him. He’s so close that I make out the faintest hint of freckles sprinkled across his cheekbones like stars just starting to twinkle at dusk.
“You forgot your racquet out on the court,” he says, thrusting my trusty old Selkirk steed at me. I open my mouth to chastise him, but he beats me to it. “ Paddle ,” he adds. “Excuse me.”
My eyes widen, lips twisting into a genuinely pleased smile. “Good catch.”
“Well, when you won’t shut up about something, I have no choice but to pay attention.”
I catch the hint of affection in his voice as he stands there unmoving, eyes fixated on my face. “Have you thought about what I asked earlier?”
I have thought about it, all day actually, as much as I am loath to admit it. And I’ve thought about other things, too, all of them involving Niko and very bad decisions. My mind does one of those sped-up movie montages of all the things about him that irritate me—the cocky swagger, the persistent erudite vibe. The way he just casually assumes he’d be “the best” at pickleball.
But then my thoughts switch to all the times I’ve ogled him from afar, watching him battle the ball machine like it’s filled with his own personal demons. The way he so patiently coaches Ed on his serve when he doesn’t know I’m looking, and how Deb told me he made his aunt chicken soup from scratch last week. His insistence that he drive me to Loretta’s, and the way the concern had etched across his face when he asked how I’d gotten home.
Somehow, the way he irks me also attracts me; maybe, I’m realizing, they’re one and the same. It’s like it doesn’t matter how he gets under my skin as long as he’s there. As much as I hate to admit it, there is something tender under all the hardness, and I can’t look away from him.
And I’m so tired. I can feel the ache of exhaustion deep in my marrow, all the way to the surface of my skin. Of feeling unsure and worried and perpetually forcing optimism and sunshine out of every pore of my body, as if my positive attitude could somehow save this place. I just want to feel something that isn’t the weight of grief or responsibility for once.
Before I know what I’m doing, before any intelligent thoughts can send a signal to my hands to keep them from moving, I’m standing and reaching for his face, gliding my fingertips up the damp, smooth arch of his neck and into that thick, silky hair, bringing our mouths dangerously near each other.
His eyes are so dark that I can barely make out his pupils, and he watches me with the same quiet intensity I’ve observed on the court, as if he’s calculating all the many directions the ball could go in before he decides the precise way he’s going to attack it.
How, exactly, is Niko going to play out this game in front of him?
I get my answer when he drops his head to mine, a low sigh escaping his lips.
“Fuck, Bex.” He utters the words like he’s in pain, and he brings one hand to cup my cheek as he drags the other through my hair.
But he doesn’t kiss me, not immediately. Instead his lips go for my neck, because of course this brooding man is part vampire. He sucks at the skin there, grazing his teeth over the tense muscle, sending electric currents straight down my spine. And then he does the thing that drives me absolutely fucking crazy: He lets out one of those low, growling moans like he does on the court, and I lose it.
I’m greedy, and I reach for his chin, pulling his lips to mine. He’s delicious, all salt and sweat and pent-up frustration, the most clichéd version of manly I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting. He doesn’t hesitate or seem to overthink what’s happening right now between us. Instead he strokes my bottom lip with his tongue, and I match him eagerly, ready to learn everything about the way he kisses.
I know, rationally, that this is a very, very bad idea. But screw all my better instincts. Right now I am an A+ student sitting in the front row of Niko Karras 101, and all my senses pay attention. There is the firm grip of his hands on my waist, the gruff sounds he makes that set off fireworks inside me. The gentle way he almost pulls me closer with his lips alone, devouring me with a hunger I’ve never seen in his serious, steadfast day-to-day. His hands travel down my ass, and there’s another groan against my mouth. I whimper in response. I cannot get enough of this, and then he leans closer and lifts me straight upward, pressing me tight around his waist.
If I was hungry for him before, I’m now ravenous, a starved animal who’s just been let out of their cage to feast. My legs twist around him as if on command, and he lifts me higher until I’m touching the edge of the desk, never once breaking our kiss as he slides me onto the counter. Somewhere behind us something falls to the ground—the computer mouse, probably—but neither of us pauses. I wouldn’t stop this moment even if it had been a priceless crystal vase shattering all over the floor. I lock my legs even tighter, pulling him so close that the hard press of his erection against the inside of my thigh brands my skin, and I reach down for the edge of my tank top and yank it up to my neck. He laughs quietly when he figures out what I’m doing, his fingertips grazing my ribs.
“You have no idea what you do to me. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about doing this, when I see you here?” he says, nipping at my ear with wet, tender kisses as he traces his fingertips up to cup my breast through my sports bra. “You and your wild clothes, and your smart-ass mouth.”
I groan loudly now, wildly turned on by every word coming out of him. It’s been ages since someone has touched me like this. My life lately has been full of sympathetic hugs and pats on the back, but nothing else. I brighten remembering what it feels like to be wanted, a flashlight with brand-new batteries switched on in the dead of night.
And god, do I love it.
“I think about it, too,” I confess, and I’m so euphoric my body practically levitates off the counter. “About you behind me, bending me over, and—”
Niko slams his mouth on mine, and all tenderness has been washed away by unfiltered, greedy lust. He squeezes my breast again, using his thumb to trace the outline of my nipple through the thin material, and now it’s my turn to let out a guttural, animalistic sound. I want to be devoured by this man. I don’t even care that he’s an arrogant tennis snob who never leaves home without a sweatband around his head. Right now, he’s my arrogant tennis snob, and I want to inhale him, eat him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“Oh my god!” a startled voice I don’t recognize says behind me. “I’m so sorry to intrude.”
Apparently, my doglike hearing evaporates when Niko’s mouth is on mine because I completely missed the trill of the door chimes, and now a stranger is hovering just a few feet away. I watch in real time as she processes what she’s just stumbled upon, her mouth frozen in a perplexed O shape.
“Niko?” she says, giving us a shocked look. “I’m Angela Rakkas, with the LA Times . We had a preliminary interview scheduled for…”
The stranger— Angela —glances down at her phone and then back up at the two of us. “Right now.”
Niko pulls away from me like I’m poison, his eyes wide with horror. Leaping off the counter, I yank my tank top down as he adjusts himself behind the desk.
“Yes, hi.” He strides forward, hand outstretched. “Angela. It’s so nice to meet you. I completely lost track of time. I’m so sorry about that. I’m so honored that you’re going to do this profile.”
There’s no more trace of the dominant sex god that was just in the room, ravishing me. Instead he is all business while I am a sweaty, heart-thumping mess. I slide onto the stool and smooth out my hair, hoping I don’t look as disheveled as I feel.
Angela’s bright-red glasses match the color of her short pixie cut, and a delicate nose piercing sparkles against her ivory-white skin when the light hits it. She strides toward me, still looking slightly caught off guard, offering her hand. “Nice to meet you…”
“Bex,” I say, still unclear about what’s unfolding in front of me. “I’m the owner of the club.”
“And Niko’s… girlfriend?” Angela asks cautiously, her eyes darting between us. Without thinking, I nod, and I can almost feel the horror creep across Niko’s face.
“Oh, yes,” I agree a little too eagerly as Niko dashes around the desk and comes to stand next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I catch a hint of his scent—sweat, musky deodorant, hot skin—and it sends my libido sizzling.
“Bex has kindly given me a place here to train while I’m taking care of my aunt. And she’s my partner in the pickleball tournament I told your editorial assistant about last night.”
I immediately scrunch my face in confusion, and he gives me a squeeze, signaling I’m supposed to do something. I look up at him, and the answer is right there on his panicked face: Play along, follow my lead.
“A former tennis pro turned pickleball player.” Angela sounds excited, and she nods eagerly as she talks. “Finding a new path after a career-ending injury. Dating his doubles partner.”
I can feel Niko wince against me at her words. “Well, I am training to try to return to the pro circuit eventually.”
“Right,” Angela says, seemingly less pumped about this bit of Niko’s story.
“Hopefully,” he adds, and only then does it dawn on me that I have no idea the extent of Niko’s injury and whether it’s actually possible for him to compete like he used to.
“And Bex, I’d love to chat with you as well, seeing as you’re…”
“So many things! Like seriously, how many hats am I even wearing? I’m Niko’s number one fan, his pickleball partner.”
I’m babbling, overwhelmed by the explosive kiss we just shared and this new reality he’s somehow roped me into. I feel his fingers grip my shoulder, like he’s physically trying to hold the words back, but they keep pouring out of me, a half laugh, half shriek.
“It was love at first pickleball lesson,” I add, because I can’t stop my lips from betraying me. “Instant! Like, a wave crashing into me.”
Why can’t I shut up? It must be because that kiss has caused my brain to short-circuit, and I’m operating purely with some sort of human cruise control turned on. I turn and give the new love of my life a wide-eyed stare that I hope looks more like adoration than it does panic.
“Absolute infatuation,” he says stiffly, and I can tell it’s hitting us both at the same time: We’ve entrapped ourselves in a giant lie, and if we don’t turn this sinking ship around now, we’re going to be so screwed.
But before we can concoct a way out, a grin spreads across Angela’s face. “The pickleball-playing owner of the Sunset Springs Racquet Club and a former tennis underdog turned pickleball amateur. This profile is already writing itself.”
Angela looks downright delighted, and she presses something on her phone before laying it on the desk in front of us. “I’m going to start recording so we can get this all on the record.” A little red dot appears on her screen; she gives it a gleeful tap and then looks back at us. “So, Niko, tell me—which did you fall in love with first, pickleball or Bex?”