Page 34 of Reluctantly Yours

When Marcus retreats into the car, I finally remember that before I laid eyes on his gorgeous face, I was mad at him.

“It’s not okay how you summoned me from my job. I can’t just leave work anytime you have a whim. I’m not your beck and call girl. When this charade is over, I still need to have a job, remember?” I take a breath, then glance toward the wooden doors. “What is it? What is so important? Did you seriously call me out of work to sit and watch you play?”

“We’re playing tennis with Fred and Frankie,” he says.

“What?” I ask, the octave of my voice rising with panic as I recall the lies that I told at dinner with Fred and Frankie about my tennis abilities.

He shrugs. “Fred called and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to connect.”

He moves to open the door.

“Barrett,” I whisper-hiss. “I can’t play tennis.”

“Don’t worry, they have loner racquets and a pro shop where you can get an outfit.”

“No. It’s not that. I was lying when I said that I was state champ in high school. I thought I was helping you out. Giving you more in common with Fred and Frankie. I never realized we’d actually be playing tennis with them.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I can hear his molars grinding.

My mouth pinches together at his exasperated tone. “It was supposed to be one date, remember?”

“We’re not backing out now. We’ll figure it out. Tell them you’re injured. A minor injury that allows you to play but not very well.”

“Ah, yes, more lies.”

“It’s harmless. Besides, I was planning to let them win anyways, so your handicap will make it more believable.”

I stare at Barrett. I don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed by the lengths that he’s going to for this business deal. I’ve heard he’s an impressive businessman, but also that he can be ruthless, calculating and self-serving. A vulture that preys on the weak.

I make a mental note not to let him get his claws into me anymore than he already has.

“Fine,” I say sharply, motioning for him to lead the way.

The building is three stories high, with large arches above the plated glass windows. Plush navy carpet with an intricate design in burgundy and gold flows down the hallway as far as I can see. The air feels cool and smells like rich, old men. A faint cigar smell lingers in the air. An odd scent for a gym.

Inside we are greeted by a woman with short black hair dressed in all white standing at an ornate looking reception desk. She smiles and I’m blinded, her white teeth a perfect match for her crisp white polo.

“Good afternoon, Mr. St. Clair,” she says cheerfully. “I see you have court seven reserved.”

“Yes.” Barrett nods, then places his hand on my lower back, giving me a little push forward. “This is my girlfriend, Chloe Anderson.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Anderson, I’m Alana.”

“Hi.” I smile back, but her brilliance is unmatched.

“Chloe is going to need a tennis outfit and shoes.”

“Of course.” She nods like people show up to a racquet club every day completely unprepared to play tennis.

“Before I send her over to the pro shop for a fitting, let me get your racket, Mr. St. Clair.”

Alana disappears through the door, only to come back a moment later with a racket bag.

“David did a wonderful job restringing your racket. It’s good as new.”

“Thank you,” Barrett says, then takes the racket bag from her.

“Do you have a preference for racket brand and style, Miss Anderson?”