Page 72 of Beautiful Revenge

I grab my keycard off the counter and head straight for the door with the asshole on my heels. “You don’t understand. This is something you need to trust me on.”

We’re out of the suite and the elevator doors part immediately when I press the call button. “You’re proving to be as hard-headed as your asshole-ness shines in the sun. Let me make it simple for you. You might’ve had me against the wall last night, but you don’t get to tell me what to do. I have a tennis court booked, and I’m damn well going to use it.”

I cross my arms and face the elevator doors, but he doesn’t. He breaks elevator etiquette again and faces me as we descend to the lobby. “There are things I can’t tell you. Things from my past that may or may not have shown up at my door to haunt me.”

I turn to him before we reach the ground floor. “Are you trying to tell me that your tennis pro is a threat to national security?”

He drags a hand through his thick hair. “That’s absurd.”

“Then great.” My quip is laced with sarcasm, and I turn away from him. “Then it’s a perfect day for a game of tennis. I hope your pro is decent. One more thing I didn’t tell you about myself is that I’m really fucking good at tennis. I played in college. So there’s another thing you know about me while I still know hardly anything about you.”

We finally get to the lobby, and the elevator doors part. It’s not soon enough. One moment I’m full of anticipation of what’s to come with the man I’ve allowed into my life, and the next I can’t wait to get out of this small space and away from him.

“Come back here,” Devon growls, but the only thing on my mind is how another man is trying to control me.

And I’m having none of it.

I surge past a couple waiting to get on the elevator. A tall, muscular man with light brown hair pulls the beauty of a woman standing next to him to his chest so I don’t run them over. She’s younger and petite with hair the color of espresso with olive skin. Any other time, I’d take a second to appreciate such a striking couple, but I’m on a mission.

Devon, on the other hand, finally gets with the hospitality gig and greets them tersely. “Oh, hello. Welcome to the manor. Enjoy your stay.”

The couple claims the empty elevator with the porter and their bags. They’re muttering something to each other as the doors close as Devon catches up to me.

I throw him a glare. “It’s amazing you keep the place booked with your charming personality.”

“Dammit, Harlow,” Devon leans in to speak in a low voice only for me. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels way too familiar. I don’t need you to gaslight me in the name of national security. I feel a stint of PTSD coming on.” I get to the back doors of the atrium, skip down the stairs, and jog to the courts.

Devon barely has to pick up his pace to stay on my heels. “That’s the last fucking thing I’d ever do.”

“Then stop whatever it is you’re doing,” I bite. It’s the last thing I say before we arrive. I drop my things on the bench, grab the first racket in a long line of decent choices, and move through the gate where two men are standing mid-court by a basket of tennis balls and a machine. They’re both dressed for a game. I’ve never seen one of the men, but I have met the other.

It's the guy who tried ruining my day yesterday, the one who insisted we’ve met each other before. Roman ... something.

“Hi,” I greet them both, half out of breath. “Sorry I’m late.”

The man I’ve never seen before juts out a hand. “You must be Harlow. I’m Rob, the tennis pro, though I also dabble in golf and sailing.”

I take his offered hand for a shake. “A man of many talents.”

“We meet again, Harlow,” Roman says. “A tennis player and a philanthropist. Nice.”

I put my hand on my hips, not at all liking his tone. “I guess you could say I’m a woman of varied interests.”

“Mr. Donnelly.” Rob’s gaze focuses over my shoulder with wide eyes. “We were just about to start a lesson.”

“Good morning, gents,” Devon greets the men right before I feel a firm hand land on the small of my back. “Rob, let’s get Harlow rescheduled for a private lesson. She’s a seasoned player. If I’m not mistaken, she’s reallyfucking good.”

I cringe.

Damn him.

“I can hold my own,” I amend and then argue, “But I don’t need a private lesson. Just looking forward to working out some pent-up energy. It’s been a long week.”

Devon’s fingers wrap around my hip to give me a squeeze forcing my attention up to his blue eyes. “Which is why you deserve a private lesson. I’m sure Rob can work you in later today.”

“I don’t mind sharing the lesson if Harlow doesn’t,” Roman offers. “I’m may not befucking good, but I can hold my own.”