He grinned at her. “I never forget women. Female companionship falls under the category of relaxation. And occasionally sun, sand, or water, depending on her level of adventurousness.”
She raised that single, devastating brow. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been arrested.”
“As long as the parties involved are willing, located on the adults-only side of the beach, and not visible to other guests, security tends to turn a blind eye to al fresco shenanigans.” Keeping his racket under his arm, he dumped his bag of water bottles and towels by the end of the court. “So there’s no real danger of arrest. It’s all pretty routine.”
Her brow rose higher. “Routine? How thrilling your assignations must be.”
“I don’t need police intervention to make things exciting.” He shook his head at her. “Trust me on that. And speaking of exciting—”
“Oh, Lord.” She flicked her gaze heavenward. “Here we go.”
“What?” He held up his hands, widening his eyes to approximate innocent confusion. “I was just going to offer to help you with your serve.”
“And that’s exciting…how, exactly?”
“Because a good serve can win you a lot of free points or set you up for success later in a rally.” He gestured toward her empty hand. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something?”
The corners of her mouth had tucked inward as she fought a smile. “So that’s why you consider teaching me to serve exciting. Because of the possibility of winning free points. Not because doing so might involve physical contact?”
Well, he couldn’t say he hadn’t been looking forward to that aspect of the job.
Still, he tsked. “That would never have occurred to me. Assistant Principal Dunn, shame on you. You have a filthy mind.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “It doesn’t really matter, though. I don’t want you to work with my serve.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
She waved her racket dismissively. “I just don’t see the point of perfecting my serve when, given my track record, I probably won’t play again for a few years. Possibly ever. So spending time to improve my form doesn’t make any sense. Instead, why don’t we just hit the ball around a bit? I can get some exercise, and you can…” Her laugh rang through the court, plumping her cheeks and striking sparks from her eyes. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Which is, I suspect, both your preference and your custom.”
That was unfair. He didn’t always do what he wanted. Like right now, for instance, when he really wanted to taste the echo of that laugh on her lips.
“If a little leisurely hitting is what you want, that’s what you’ll get.” He gestured toward the far end of the court. “Why don’t you take that side, since there’s less glare from the overhead lights there?”
“Sure.” She handed him the can of balls and rambled over to the other side, her hips swaying in a very distracting way.
If he didn’t get out his final question now, that hypnotic sway would make him forget it entirely. “How much do you want to run?”
“Not much. My knee can’t handle it.” She stretched her arms—and racket—to the sky, twisting from side to side. “Such are the travails of middle age, as you’ll eventually discover.”
He frowned at her. “There are professional tennis players only a couple years younger than you ranked within the top ten. Hell, the top five. Thirty-nine isn’t exactly one step from the grave, and it’s not that far distant from twenty-six.”
“Oh, come on.” She positioned her feet shoulder-width apart and bent down, stretching her hamstrings. “We share zero cultural touchstones. When I was growing up, New Kids on the Block were the boy band du jour. I had their poster on my wall. What was your era’s equivalent? Backstreet Boys? *NSYNC? Or did they not make it to Sweden?”
He grabbed a couple balls, slipped one in his pocket, and bounced the other against the acrylic-covered concrete. “A Swede wrote and produced songs for both groups, so yeah. They were big there. But that happened when I was…I don’t know. Six? Eight?”
“Years too young for even a glimpse of puberty.” She snorted. “You’re a kid.”
“Hey, at least I was too old for One Direction. That should give you some comfort.”
This time, when he bounced the ball, he hit it toward her. Even that faint impact zinged through his overworked wrist, but as always, thepingof the ball against the sweet spot of his racket soothed the sting.
The ball landed precisely where he’d intended, just within reach of her racket. She promptly hit it into the net. But when she sighed and strode toward it, he waved her off.
“This time, don’t move forward quite so far. You want to stay behind the bounce, so when you hit the ball, it’s in front of you. And don’t try to hit it so hard. Let the racket do some of the work for you.” He retrieved the ball from his pocket and bounced it a few times. “I know you don’t care about technique, but even a friendly rally isn’t fun if you can’t get the ball over the net.”
She nodded, her brows drawn together. “Got it.”
Another easy shot that landed a couple steps away from her. “I’m not certain whether the reigning boy bands of different eras should be considered cultural touchstones or any meaningful gauge of compatibility.”
