His indolent façade had vanished, but he was still unreadable, his eyes hard and blank.
So he wasn’t unformed and devoid of life experience after all. But a man who wouldn’t allow his true form to be known or share that life experience wasn’t much better.
“You wouldn’t even explain why you really came here to work. The only reason you told me about your injuries is because I royally pissed you off.” She gave his chin a light pinch and backed away. “If I said yes to you, maybe we’d be compatible in bed. Maybe we’d even be compatible outside bed, despite our age difference. But I can’t make that determination if you don’t let me see who you are. So either drop that careless-beach-dude shell of yours or don’t expect me to trust you farther than I can throw you. Which, given my joint issues, isn’t far.”
No doubt he’d constructed his particular persona for a reason. She didn’t know his full story, not yet, but she suspected it was painful and ugly, and she didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t want to belabor his past. Didn’t want to be the person who’d made him flinch like that, even for a moment.
She needed to make herself clear, though. Needed—for some unknown, no-doubt misguided reason—to give him one last chance to prove her wrong, to earn her trust by letting her peek beneath that playboy façade.
A glimpse. She just needed a glimpse, and then maybe…
Maybe she could try to believe in him. In the sincerity of his interest.
“Talk to me,” she said. It was an invitation. A plea.
But he didn’t say a word. He just stood there, gripping the net and staring at her.
His silence shouldn’t sting. Shouldn’t leave her raw and thick-throated.
“All right.” She gathered her water bottle and started for the court entrance. “Fair enough.”
“What about our next appointment? Do you plan to show?”
There was no emotion in that low voice. No indication he’d understood what she was asking of him or wanted her enough to risk it.
Just as well. She had a promotion to plan. “I don’t think I’ll have time for another lesson before I leave. Consider yourself off the hook.”
“There are no refunds,” he reminded her.
Even stone-faced, he was damn handsome. Tall and strong and magnetic. Those tired-looking olive-green eyes bored into hers, and his shaggy brown hair rippled in the rising breeze. She wanted to smooth it.
A faint crack of distant thunder dissuaded her. The storm was almost upon them, and she needed to be safe inside before it hit.
“I remember the policy.” One last good look, and then she’d go. “If I don’t see you again, take care. I wish you good health and a good time and whatever else you want.” She had to laugh, even though it hurt her throat and came out strangled and rough. “Not that I have any way of determining what that might be. God knows you won’t tell me.”
Then she walked into the roiling night, letting the wind whip away any trace of the foolish tears she refused to acknowledge. Even to herself.
Ten
Scrollingthrough Netflix options with fretful swipes of his thumb, Lucas attempted in vain to find a comfortable position on his couch.
It was a familiar exercise, doomed to failure. From the day he’d moved into his small, pre-furnished apartment, the generic sofa had defied his attempts at lounging. Its cushions were just a bit too hard for true relaxation, and they weren’t deep enough for someone of his height. His calves and feet hung over one of the rolled arms if he tried to lay down. The nubby upholstery abraded any bare skin every time he shifted.
He could have bought a new one months ago.
He hadn’t. Just as he hadn’t replaced his mattress, which had a noticeable dip in the center, or contacted the appropriate person at the resort to ask iftheymight replace it. Just as he hadn’t bothered to take any of the vacation days he’d accrued since his arrival.
The back of his neck itched, and it wasn’t from sunburn or even the upholstery.
It was shame. Anger at himself. Frustration, because he knew what he wanted. He did. The only question was whether he was willing to commit, to put in the work, to risk himself emotionally and—
With a sigh, he put the remote down on the coffee table.
He should be honest, at least with himself. His inability to settle, his shame and frustration, weren’t about a damn couch or his mattress. Inevitably, his traitorous brain had wended its way back to Tess. Again.
He knew what he wanted. Her.
But she’d made herself abundantly clear the previous night. She wouldn’t seek him out again, not without some gesture of good faith on his part. More than flowers. More than a picnic.
