Page 17 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

WHIMSY

Elias comes in second at the Miami Open and despite the fact that I know it’s a bummer for him, he handles it with grace and manages not to lose his shit on the court, even though I can see the anger simmering behind his eyes. The thing about Elias is he’s never mad at his opponent, just himself.

I settle into the luxurious leather seat on the private jet so we can head to the Monte Carlo Masters tournament. Elias has a place there so we won’t be staying in a hotel yet—that’s when things will get tricky, and we’ll be stuck sharing one room and a bed.

A lump lodges in my throat. Does he sleep in his underwear? Am I going to have to sleep beside him when he’s barely wearing anything? I’m just a girl. How am I supposed to survive temptation like that? It’s going to be torture.

Ebba settles into the seat beside me, and I shoot a smile her way, but before either of us can speak a shadow looms above us.

Looking up, I find Elias staring down at us. He’s so tall and his shoulders are so broad and he’s so handsome and … my brain is short circuiting.

“Ebba.” His morning voice is deeper than normal. “You gonna let me sit with my girlfriend?”

Ebba’s lips part. “Oh … right.” She hops up and moves across the aisle.

I frown in her direction as Elias drops into the seat beside me. “I got you coffee,” he says, passing me a caramel macchiato. “And a blueberry coffee cake.”

Can he please stop doing such nice things for me? We’ve barely started this whole fake dating gig and he’s already got my stomach in knots. How is any real boyfriend ever supposed to live up to this expectation?

“Thank you.” I take both from him.

None of my past boyfriends have ever treated me as well as my fake boyfriend does and I’m not sure what that says about them or myself.

“Look at that,” Elias’s mom says behind us. “Aren’t they so cute?” Alvinia presumably asks her husband, the words lilting with her Swedish accent.

“Yes, very cute, dear,” Malcolm replies.

Ebba gags. “Yes, they’re adorable.”

I lean around Elias to ask her, “How’s Keaton?”

“Good,” she replies with a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Busy with work.”

I’ve only met her boyfriend once, but it’s safe to say I’m not a fan.

With the way Elias frowns beside me I take it he’s not either.

It doesn’t help that it’s painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that Ebba and Fisher—Noah Baker’s coach—have a thing for each other.

Ebba’s never told me about it even when I’ve hinted and tried to pry it from her.

I’m not sure if they were ever together, but they sure do eye fuck each other a lot.

“Oh, that’s too bad, sweetie,” Alvinia coos to her daughter. “I was hoping he could meet us in Monte Carlo.”

“I hoped so too,” Ebba sighs. She finishes a text or email she’s typing and presses send.

Since we’re all on board, we prepare for takeoff.

I’ll never get used to flying private with Elias.

He flies private almost everywhere. Not because he’s so famous he needs to avoid being seen, but he’s insanely wealthy and can afford it.

Between the money he earns from matches, and endorsements, he’s set for life.

Not to mention the extra money he makes on appearances and such.

Take off has my tummy jolting, but soon we’re at cruising altitude and I pull out my trusty iPad to sketch.

Elias peeks over at the piece I’m working on. I draw all kinds of things but among my favorites are fashion sketches. I never had any desire to actually going into design but I think since I admire clothes so much it was natural for me to move into sketching them.

“I didn’t know you draw,” Elias says softly beside me.

Before I can reply, Ebba snorts. “She was your assistant for years and now she’s your girlfriend and you didn’t know she draws? Some boyfriend you are,” she jests, but there’s a little more bite to her tone than usual and I wonder if it has to do with the Keaton thing.

Before Elias can reply, I interject. “It’s been a while since I sat down and sketched so that’s why.” To Elias, I say, “I always liked drawing in school and I’ve dabbled some over the years. I’m primarily self-taught, so I promise you I’m not that good.”

He frowns at that. “Don’t put yourself down, Whim. That’s fantastic.” He points to my screen.

Heat rushes to my face. “It’s really nothing.”

“You’re doing it again,” he says. I sigh and pull my lip gloss out of my bag, applying it because they suddenly feel dry. “Why do you do that?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I guess because I don’t see what you see? I see all the ways I can improve it. I see how my lines are wobbly because my hands shake?—”

“Because of the…” he whispers so no one can overhear, but Ebba’s already popped her earbuds in and his parents are talking about some show they’re currently binging.

I nod. “Yeah. It’s a side effect of the medication.” I press my lips together flatly, not wanting to talk about it more because I can tell this is one of those times it’s going to make me mad.

The thing no one warns you about any kind of diagnosis is how even years later there are waves of anger and grieving because how dare your own body betray you this way.

How dare it let you down and fail to do the one thing it’s supposed to do—thrive.

It’s even worse when the very medicine that’s supposed to help causes a host of issues in itself.

Elias seems to sense I’m not in the mood to talk about it, and I don’t think he’d push it with his parents and Ebba so close even though they’re occupied.

“Basically, I always see what’s wrong—what I can improve on. I’m looking at it from a skewed perspective.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His eyes hold mine hostage. “Well, if my opinion matters at all to you, then I want you to know that I think you’re really fucking good.”

I give him a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He flashes a panty-melting smile.

Pulling out his headphones, he fixes them on and starts up one of his favorite podcasts by a former tennis player.

I recognize it immediately from the small display photo on his phone, because he had me queue it up for him all the time while he’d do various activities, be it meditating or exercising or a cold plunge.

He closes his eyes and lies back.

With no more distractions, I lose myself in drawing and funnily enough I find myself being less critical as I go.

I forgot that Ebba and their parents were staying in Elias’s place in Monte Carlo too. How I forgot, I’m not so sure, since they always stay here. I suppose it was my mind’s defense mechanism not wanting to accept that we’d be sharing a bed sooner than I thought.

Elias can sense my unease. “I can sleep on the floor,” he says.

I roll my eyes at that ridiculous statement. “It’s your house and your bed. If anyone sleeps on the floor it would be me. But…” I swallow down my nerves. “We’re both adults. We can handle this.”

When we got here, and I headed for the guest room I always stay in, his mom caught my arm and smiled when she said, “Oh, Whimsy, don’t stay in the guest room on our behalf. We know you guys share a bed. We’re not dumb.”

And that’s what led me here, red-faced and staring at his bed.

Somehow this is worse than sharing a bed in a hotel because this is his bed.

It’s far more intimate. I wonder if he’s ever let a woman into this space.

He usually reserves his hookups to hotels—which unfortunately I know way too much about thanks to being sent numerous times to stock him up on condoms when he forgot to get them.

“Are you sure?”

The fact he looks at me with so much genuine concern somehow makes it worse.

“Positive.” My voice squeaks.

Elias shrugs and sets my bag down. “If you’re sure.” He’s still trying to give me an out.

I nod. The fact his family is going to be staying here the length of this tournament makes my stomach churn. We’re going to have to fake this thing even more than usual.

I wet my lips and look to him. “You realize your family thinks this is real, right? We have to be on at all times.”

He nods, setting his hands on his hips. “I can handle that. Can you?”

I paste on a smile. “It won’t be a problem.”

“You can shower if you want.” He hooks his thumb toward the bathroom. “I’ll wait.”

I bite my lip. “I can use the guest?—”

He shakes his head. “No, Whim.”

“You’re so bossy,” I mutter with an eyeroll.

He chuckles. “Go shower.” He gives my hip a poke. “I’m going to unpack.”

I rifle through my luggage for a change of clothes. I slept on the plane, and I’m used to the travel after doing this with him for the past several years, so the jetlag doesn’t bother me like it used to.

I settle on a pair of light blue linen pants with a flowy white sweater.

I carry my toiletry bag into the bathroom with me.

The primary bath is beyond nice. Sleek charcoal tiles decorate the walls and floors, giving it a moody air with the light that glows behind the mirrors and beneath the cabinets.

I flick on the big light. There are two sinks, equally as bare, but I know he usually uses the one on the right closest to the door so I take the other side and set out some of my things.

We’ll be here a few weeks so I might as well get comfortable.

When I’ve unpacked my stuff, I take a deep steadying breath. I need to get over how weird this feels. It’s one thing lying to the public. It’s another lying to his family and mine. I know we decided to, but I might be regretting that decision.

Turning the shower on, it heats up in record time. I carefully remove my clothes from the flight and toss them in the hamper.

The shower is heavenly and much needed after the hours of travel.

Flying by private jet is a luxurious experience and not nearly as draining as flying on a normal plane, but it’s still travel, and travel is exhausting. It’s the constant sitting in one spot that does me in the most. Especially with my joints. Luckily, the flare seems to be under control.

I don’t want to leave the shower, but I’m sure Elias is waiting for his turn, so I reluctantly shut the water off and dry myself before dressing. I find him in the bedroom, finishing unpacking his suitcase. He looks over at me with a soft smile.

“Good shower?” he asks.

I nod. “It’s all yours.”

“I’ll finish this first.” He nods to his stuff.

“Do you…” I hesitate, my fingers finding each other with a nervous dance. “Do you care if I unpack my stuff in here too?”

He looks over his shoulder, brow arched. “I feel bad you even have to ask that. There’s plenty of space, Whim. Dresser, closet, put your stuff wherever you want.”

“Are you sure?”

When I was working for him, I learned quickly that Elias is particular about his space.

He seems to read the expression on my face. “I can be a neat freak prick sometimes, but this is your space now too, Whim. Use it.”

He shuts the dresser drawer he’s at. “I’m going to take that shower now.”

As he passes me, he grabs a wet strand of my hair between his fingers and rubs it. My breath catches and I pray he doesn’t notice but the wink he shoots me tells me otherwise.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind him and I let out a relieved breath.

I turn some music on, letting it play out of my phone speaker because I left my AirPods downstairs. I keep the volume on the lower side because I don’t want to disturb Elias.

I hum along, throwing in a shimmy every now and then as I unpack.

God, this feels weird. I haven’t ever lived with a man, and that’s essentially what Elias and I are going to be doing for however many months we keep up this ruse.

I’m so busy singing along that I don’t notice Elias exit the bathroom until I pop out of the closet and find him standing at the dresser in nothing but a towel.

His body is slick with water. It drips from his chest down his chiseled stomach to where it gets absorbed by the towel wrapped around his waist.

My mouth falls open.

Elias is hot . I know this. It’s not some kind of new revelation. But I’ve never seen him like this—so close to naked. Like a fantasy come to life.

He looks over at me as he pulls a t-shirt from the drawer. “You’re gonna catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that.”

My jaw snaps shut, my face flaming. “I wasn’t … I … you … and I just…”

His smile grows. “It’s okay. Look all you want. I am your boyfriend now,” he teases.

He grabs the rest of his clothes and disappears back into the bathroom.

I let out a breath. I’ve probably been holding it since he first walked out. I need to get over this crush, because this whole close proximity thing might be my undoing.

I disappear back into the closet to finish putting my things away.

By the time I return, Elias has left the bathroom and is nowhere to be seen in the bedroom. I inhale a deep breath.

“You can do this, Whimsy,” I say to myself.

I wish I felt as confident as I sound.