Page 31 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

ELIAS

“You’re making breakfast?”

I look up from my task of making scrambled eggs and find a bleary-eyed Whimsy standing in the doorway to the bedroom we chose in the Paris apartment.

“I’m trying to.” I don’t admit that I got nervous when I heard her stirring in the bedroom and burnt the first batch of eggs.

She stifles a yawn and reaches up to tighten her ponytail.

The gesture reveals the tanned skin of her belly and my throat catches.

Her tiny shorts with blue and white stripes leave little to my imagination and her blue top is doing nothing to obscure the curve of her breasts and the gentle press of her nipples against the fabric.

Fuck, fuck, fuck .

I jerk my gaze away, focusing on the eggs before I burn another pan’s worth.

“Did the place have groceries already? I didn’t arrange for a delivery yet.” She pulls out a chair at the table by one of the large windows. One leg curls under her as she sits.

The shutters are open, revealing the creeping of daylight on the horizon. The Eiffel Tower is shockingly close, but I told her there was no budget so I’m sure it’s costing me a pretty penny.

“There’s a little market down the street. Google said it was open, so I went. I got fresh croissants, too.” I point to the paper bag.

Whimsy gasps and hops out of the chair. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” She opens the bag and inhales the scent. “Don’t judge me,” she says when she catches me staring. “French croissants are unmatched. I wait all tour for them.”

I slide the eggs onto two plates and Whimsy adds a croissant for each of us.

“This looks delicious.”

She carries both plates over to the table and I join her after I’ve poured each of us a glass of fresh OJ.

Whimsy crosses one leg beneath herself like she had been seated before, and inhales the smell of the croissant when she breaks it in half.

“Mm,” she hums. “It’s still warm.”

“I haven’t been back long,” I explain.

“This was nice of you.”

My mind flashes back to the woman on the plane and what she said. I hadn’t thought twice when I woke up early this morning and decided to make breakfast for Whimsy. I just did it.

Do I say that, though? No. Instead I say, “I needed to stretch my knee anyway. It just made sense.”

“Of course,” she says with a playful smile that has me worried that I don’t have her fooled at all.

Whimsy is probably well aware of the feelings I’ve been developing for her.

She probably thinks it’s hilarious—she gets paid for the job and manages to make me fall for real.

I realize as soon as I’ve had the thought, though, that it isn’t like Whimsy to be that way.

Though, after her being my assistant for the past few years and taking care of everything, I threw at her, it’s probably erased any spark of attraction she might feel on her part.

Then again, I remember the little noises she makes the few times I’ve kissed her and maybe she’s not so immune to me after all.

“I’m going to expect this treatment every morning you’re not at practice or a match. Just so you know.”

I sigh like it’s such a burden when it’s not at all. “I’m sure I can manage that.”

“Ebba should be here by late afternoon. Maybe we could all get dinner together?” she suggests. “Keaton is supposed to arrive in a few days.”

I bristle at the name. Fucking Keaton.

The guy hasn’t done anything for me to outright hate his guts—but I hate his guts. He cares more about his work than my sister and it’s obvious she’s not that into him.

“I take it you don’t like him?” Whimsy asks, peering at me over the juice glass she has raised to her lips.

“Not at all. You?” I shovel a bite of eggs into my mouth, waiting for her response.

“No.” She picks up her fork and sets it down again. “She doesn’t seem that happy with him, but I think she’s just a little bit lost right now. I don’t think he’s an outright horrible person, but he’s selfish and that doesn’t bode well for a future.”

Her words cause me pause. “Do you … uh … think that I’m selfish?”

She stares at me as if weighing whether or not I can handle what she has to say.

“No, I don’t think that you’re selfish. Someone selfish would’ve never noticed that I get a little sick on planes or gotten me a stuffed animal because you know how much I love dinosaurs.

But I do think you prioritize your career over everything else.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. You’re playing a professional sport—something your body can’t keep up to forever.

It makes sense to pour your all into it while you can, but you also can’t forget to live. ”

Pressing my lips together, I struggle to figure out how much to say. “I think I’m finally living again—living for more than tennis.” I give her a significant look. If she catches what I’m saying, she ignores it.

Maybe it’s for the best that she does.

We finish our breakfast, and I go to gather our dishes to wash them, but she quickly snatches them from me.

“You cooked. I’ll wash. Besides, how long have you been on your knee?

” I give her a sheepish expression. “Exactly. Go lay on the couch or in the bed and elevate. The heating pad is in my suitcase. It’s right on top. ”

The couch looks hardly big enough for my long frame to stretch out on so I opt for the bed. It’s still rumpled from sleep. I lift the top of Whimsy’s suitcase and sure enough the heating pad is right on top.

It’s what’s beneath it that I’m not prepared for.

The bra is see-through with flowers embroidered along the edges of it.

Fuck .

I can’t help imagining Whimsy in the delicate fabric. I close my eyes and fuck, just the idea of it nearly brings me to my knees.

I take a deep breath and quickly close the suitcase.

Plugging the heating pad in the with adapter, I lay down on the bed and pick up my phone, scrolling through social media as a distraction.

Except my mind keeps wandering to the bra and wondering what other lingerie she might have stashed in there.

This isn’t working .

Exiting out of my social media app, I open YouTube instead and find another eyeliner tutorial to watch. The motion seems straightforward, but I can see why if she’s having a bad day with the tremors in her hands that she might struggle.

“Hey,” she calls from the kitchen.

I pause the video and lay my phone screen down on my chest. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to run and get some coffee. You want anything?”

“Sure.”

She breezes into the room and pops her suitcase open. She stills, eyes glued to the bra. She grabs it, quickly tucking it beneath other clothes before peeking at me over her shoulder. I pretend to be none the wiser.

With her outfit picked out she ducks into the bathroom.

When she emerges, she’s applied a little bit of makeup and brushed her hair. The plain white t-shirt hugs her torso and her denim skirt shows off her toned legs.

“What kind of coffee do you want?”

“I trust you to know what I want,” I reply, reaching for my wallet. “Take my card.”

She eyes my credit card with pure offense. “I can afford coffee, Elias.”

“I’m aware but let me get it.”

She rolls her eyes at me and heads out the doorway without taking it. A moment later the main door to the apartment closes. Well, then.

With a sigh, I put my card away and pick up my phone again. I Google Noah’s game and watch it live until Whimsy returns. Turning the heating pad off I get up and stretch before I meet her in the living area.

“That looks like more than coffee, Whim,” I comment, taking in all of the baked goods she’s unpacking.

She turns wide, panicked eyes in my direction. “I can’t resist a French baked good. Don’t judge me.”

Laughter bursts out of me and I shake my head. “God, you’re so fucking cute.”

It’s right there—the urge to cup her cheeks and kiss her—but we’re alone and that’s not my place.

Her face pinkens at my comment. “I’ll share them if you want some.”

“I’ll never say no to a pain au chocolat.” I point to the box.

Her eyes narrow on me. “It’s really annoying that you said that with a perfect French accent.”

I cross my arms over my chest with a smug expression. “I can’t help it if I’m perfect.”

“Okay.” She holds up a hand, eyes rolling. “Slow down. You’re far from perfect.”

I press a hand to my chest. “That hurts.”

Her eyes dance with humor. “With the size of your ego I’m sure you’ll recover just fine.”

I need to watch myself. The back and forth, banter between us is too fun, too easy.

I have to remind myself that this is a job to Whimsy.

When it’s over, it wouldn’t look right for her to be my assistant again.

Besides, with what she’s being paid she might just want to take a break to figure out what she wants next in life.

But chances are I’ll never see her again and I really don’t want to dwell on why that bothers me so much.

“Do you want it now?” she asks, setting the baked good aside for me.

“Nah, and I was only kidding. I won’t take your precious pastries.”

She snorts. “Well, I lied. I know this one is your favorite so I got it for you.”

“You were thinking of me?” Fuck, why does that make me ridiculously happy?

A blush stains her cheeks. “I’ve been your assistant for years. I know you well.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking of me,” I reiterate.

With a sigh, she plucks a macaron out of the box and plops on the couch. “Only because you’re so annoying.”

“Mhm,” I hum, not buying what she’s selling one bit. She bites into the macaron and moans . Her fingers quickly brush the crumbs from her lips. “That good?” I ask in a choked voice.

“So good,” she replies. “You want a bite?”

I should say no, let her enjoy her sweet treat, but I can’t help but want a taste too.

“Yeah, I do.” I sit down beside her, and she offers me the macaron, but instead of taking it from her, I lean in and take a bite. My lips graze her fingers, and I watch as her eyes dilate.

I pull away but her eyes continue to watch the movement of my mouth as I chew.

“Delicious,” I say.

I watch the motion of her throat as she swallows. It surprises me when she reaches out and grazes her thumb over my lip. She pulls it away and sucks the crumb into her mouth.

Her eyes widen in shock at her own actions. “Oh my God,” she blurts. “I’m so sorry. That was completely out of line. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Her hands flutter around her sides like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. I wrap my own hands around them to hold her steady.

“I didn’t stop you, did I?”

“Well, n-no,” she stutters.

“So, then why are you apologizing?” I ask, staring into her eyes. The blue hue swirls with emotions I know she’s too scared to voice.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Don’t ever apologize for touching me, Whim.” I let go of her hands and cup her cheek. The way she instantly relaxes into my touch fills me with a feeling of pride. She might not realize it but she trusts me.

“No?”

“No,” I reiterate. “In fact,” I grin. “Touch me any time you want.”

She laughs and her gaze drops from mine to her lap, her shoulders loosening as she relaxes. “Anytime, huh?” Her eyes move back to mine.

“Anytime. Anywhere.” Do I sound as desperate as I feel?

“I’ll … um … keep that in mind.”

I grin and tuck an errant piece of hair behind her ear. “You do that.”

Clearing her throat, she says, “Now elevate your knee, again. You’re stressing me out.”

I mock salute her. “Yes, ma’am.” I settle fully onto the couch and prop my leg up on the table in front of me. “I think I like it when you’re bossy.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“Yeah, but you like me.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t argue. My ego she likes to talk about so much doubles.