Page 41 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

WHIMSY

We stay in Paris for two more days as Elias does media coverage and press.

There’s more to be had, but he refuses to do too much—wanting to head to the HSBC Championships ahead of Wimbledon and focus on shifting his game for the grass courts.

After the win, I can tell he doesn’t want to get cocky like he has in the past. He’s dialed in and focused and not just on his singles play, but doubles too.

It’s unusual for two players competing at such a high level to also play doubles, but Noah and Elias work flawlessly together despite their past bitter rivalry.

People truly can change.

If they want to, that is.

It’s strange for me though—this many months on tour not working as Elias’s assistant.

Strangely, I miss it. I’m not the kind of person who enjoys doing nothing day in and day out and I have no desire to try to make social media my job the way Ebba has.

I don’t think I could handle having random peoples’ criticism shoved in my face when I haven’t asked for it.

Some of the comments I’ve received on the account Jackson forced me to create have been downright vile.

Sure, there’s plenty of nice comments but those nasty ones stay with me.

But it’s part of what I’m doing to help Elias—posting behind the scenes photos of our “relationship” to humanize him.

The photo that’s gotten the most traction was one I snapped when we were still in Miami of him sleeping on my couch with Craig on his chest.

The hotel room door opens and I jump, startled at the sudden noise. I hope one day I won’t be so jumpy, but the thing with Keaton did a number on me.

“You look more tired than usual,” I comment as Elias strides into the room and sits down on the chair in the corner to pull his shoes off.

“I feel it,” he grumbles. “My team is working me harder than normal. They had me running sprints for what felt like hours.” He tugs on the curls of his hair in annoyance. “I know it’ll help me in the long run, but I hate it.”

He stands and yanks his shirt off and I’m gifted with the stunning view of his chest.

He’s so fucking beautiful. I swear he could be a model like his mom if he really wanted to.

His skin is practically flawless except for a scar on his shoulder he told me once he got skateboarding as a kid.

All that skin hugs a muscular and toned body that’s made for endurance.

And the full sleeve tattoo on his left arm is drool worthy.

I don’t mean to let my thoughts stray to the way those shoulders felt holding my thighs open as he lapped at my pussy, but I can’t seem to help but go there.

A sudden snapping sound pulls me back to reality.

Elias grins down at me, hands on his hips. His athletic shorts hang dangerously low and I find myself wondering if he actually has any boxer-briefs on underneath there.

“I’m feeling thoroughly objectified, Whim. I’m not a piece of meat, you know? I’m not here for you to ogle just for your viewing pleasure.”

I wonder if my face is as red as I feel like it is.

“I … uh …” Yeah, I’m all out of words and certainly have no excuse.

His smile only gets bigger. “I’m kidding. Look all you want. It feels good to have my fake-girlfriend appreciate me.”

Ugh.

There’s that dreadful word.

Fake .

I’m aware that I’m the one that redrew the lines and firmly reestablished that we weren’t going to try to make this serious, and while I do regret that decision, I did it for him.

I don’t want to become a distraction for him.

He needs to focus on his game. Being a professional athlete doesn’t last forever.

The body wears out. I don’t want him to prioritize me—because I realize now he’s the type to spoil—and end up resenting me one day for it.

Not to mention there’s the pesky problem of Jackson.

I’m certain he would skin me alive if this turned out to be real. He’d be certain that I did some kind of magic spell on him or something. God forbid Elias like me for me.

“I was only teasing,” Elias sobers. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Sorry. I just got lost in thought is all.”

He doesn’t look like he believes me.

“You’re not thinking about him, are you?”

“Jackson?” I blurt guilty.

“No,” he says the word slowly, brows furrowing. “I meant Keaton.”

“Oh.” I shake my head. “No. I wasn’t thinking about him.” At least not right now.

“The offer still stands for me to hire you a therapist.”

The genuine concern in his voice makes my stomach feel gooey. It’s not fair that he’s so good looking, nice, and caring. Even when I was working for him and he could sometimes be a bit demanding there was always a genuine appreciation and acknowledgment from him when I completed a task.

“I’m okay, really.”

And I am. Mostly, anyway. Now that time has passed and he’s gone I don’t feel as fearful as I did right after the incident.

“The offer is always on the table,” he assures me.

Even though I have no plans in talking to a therapist about what happened, I appreciate his care.

“Thank you,” I say when I find my voice again.

“You’re welcome.”

He stands there awkwardly for a moment, neither of us seeming to know what to do or say. After a long minute, he sighs and heads to the bathroom. The shower cuts on a moment later, even though from the looks of him he’s freshly showered.

I hear him mumbling something to himself in the bathroom, but I don’t get up to investigate.

Picking up my iPad I return to my drawing, I try to focus on the sketch I’ve been working on all afternoon.

An old friend from high school remembered that I enjoyed drawing and reached out to see if I would be interested in illustrating their first children’s book.

They offered a fair price for the work, so it seemed like a no brainer.

Since I’m not running all over doing things for Elias, at least this makes me feel like I’m working.

When he finally pads back into the room, he can’t seem to stop yawning.

He climbs into bed beside me—because of course Jackson is still ensuring every room we have only includes one bed just in case some crazy person would try to check with the hotel.

I think he’s being overly paranoid, but it’s not my place to argue with him.

Elias fiddles with the pillows behind his head, attempting to get comfortable. His eyes stray over to my screen.

“What are you working on?”

“An old friend reached out a few days ago about having me illustrate her children’s book. I said yes, so I’m working on a few sketches in different styles to see what she might like most.”

I’m not expecting Elias’s blinding grin. “That’s great, Whimsy. Really amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

I can feel the blush warming my cheeks. I’ve never done well with someone praising my art.

I suppose it’s because I never feel it’s good enough.

I always find areas where I feel I can improve upon my technique.

I think it’s why I’ve come to love digital art so much—it lets me try out different styles and easily make changes in layers instead of ruining the whole work.

“Thank you. She might not like it.”

He frowns and the expression is slightly jarring because he’s usually smiling off the court or locked in and focused on the court. Frowning is not one of his go-to expressions.

“Why wouldn’t she like it? It looks fantastic.”

I shrug. “Not every style is a right fit for everyone. It’s why I’m sketching a few different ones and hoping one will stick.”

He stares at me for a long moment. Long enough that I start to squirm and accidentally draw a long line across my drawing.

“Shit,” I curse and hastily delete it.

Laying on his side, he props his head in his hand. “I don’t know if anyone has told you, but you’re kind of a people pleaser.”

I snort. “Don’t worry, my mother likes to remind me of that fact often. She’s tried to get me to change, but it’s just a part of who I am.”

“You’re too nice.”

I save my artwork and close up my iPad, laying the device aside. Crossing my arms over my chest, I glower at the man beside me in bed. I kind of like this though—being above him.

Crap.

Why did I have to go and think that? Now images of me on top, rocking my body against his, how in control it would feel to have such a powerful man beneath me are going to plague my dreams.

I manage to find my words again. “Is there something wrong with being nice?”

“ Too nice,” he corrects. “And it is when it’s to your own detriment.”

I duck my head, unable to meet his eyes. He has a point. I know it, but it’s not something I can easily change.

“I’ll work on it,” I mumble, knowing good and well I probably won’t.

His amused chuckle fills the air as he leans over to turn off his bedside lamp.

“Sure you will,” he says in that deep, silky voice. “Night, Whim.”

“Night, Elias.”