Page 26 of Love, Amy

She turns her attention towards the outfits she brought over, sifting through them. I shake my head again. “I’m sure they do.”

Fernanda always needs more information. “Where are you going on this date?”

I know the answer, of course, but for some reason it dies on my lips. If I admit my plan, she’ll know that I actually care about Aurelio. The date doesn’t scream first. It doesn’t scream casual. I can hardly admit it to myself, let alone to her.

Fernanda’s eyes narrow, missing nothing. “Exactly how many dates have you gone on with this gentleman, Amy?” Her green face mask suddenly takes on a threatening quality.

I put my hands up in surrender. “This is only the second one.” It’s the truth, minus a few omissions.

She appreciates the honesty, tapping a finger on her chin. “So, you want to look sexy but not like you’re trying too hard. Is he a good dresser?”

I nod. “He always looks handsome.” The words ache a little too much.

Fernanda’s ability to sense my tender spots is like a heat-seeking missile. Her genuine glee at the situation grows with each vulnerability of mine she finds. “Oh, shut up,” I grumble, stepping over to the bed to look over the options she brought. “Just help me find something to wear.”

Her fingers trail over the option lying on top. “I only brought over my short dresses. They’ll be a little longer on you, but I like my ass almost out, so it should be fine.”

I cross my arms. “Why do you even have these? We’re here to play tennis.”

Fernanda looks at me askance, scandalized. She holds a hand to her chest. “Amy,” she says with mock seriousness, “I’m never in Paris to just play tennis.”

She sounds like Aurelio. Am I the only top tennis player who hasn’t found that elusive balance? Or am I the only one that never thought it existed in the first place?

I don’t answer, reaching out to touch the silky, navy dress lying on the top of the pile. It really is beautiful. I can almost picture Amy the person wearing it, nervously fiddling with the straps while she waits for her date to join her.

Fernanda hums in agreement. “I was thinking about that one, too. I’ve actually never worn it. The designer sent it a few months ago, but it’s a little too plain for me.”

My mouth falls open. “Too plain?”

She waves her golden fingernails at me, smiling. “Some of us like a little sparkle, Amy. A little shine. It wasn’t meant to be an insult. You’ll look beautiful in it.” She pauses, appraising me. “In fact, keep it. Everyone needs a good dress.” She grabs the hanger, eagerly passing the dress to me.

A lump forms in my throat. “Thanks, Fernanda.” I try to infuse as much sincerity as I can into my words. “I think you’ll get a new shine tomorrow anyway.” She glances at me in confusion. “The Roland Garros trophy.”

Her smile softens a little, becoming less like the Fernanda sitting at the podium fielding questions from reporters and a little more like the twenty-two-year-old girl she is. “Thanks, Amy.” She tosses her hair again, which I now recognize as a nervous tick. “I’ll try.”

Her face grows serious, eyeing the dress in my hand. “Silver jewelry,” she says sternly. “And make sure to leave it hanging until you put it on, or it will wrinkle.” She backs up towards the door as she says it.

“Good luck tomorrow.” I give her a little wave as she leaves. It’s not the first time I’ve said the words to Fernanda, but it is the first time I’ve meant them.

She opens the door, half in, half out. “Say hi to Aurelio for me, Amy.”

My mouth falls open, soundlessly trying to find the words to deny it. She winks and then closes the door between us.

All I can do is shake my head as I hang the dress over the back of the bathroom door. Fernanda Navarro. She really is one of the best in the world.

*

Aurelio waits for me in the hotel lobby. The moment I step off the elevator, I can feel his gaze on me. His gorgeous dark eyes kiss off my shoulders, my wrists, my cheekbones. My kitten heels that I wore to the WTA dinner click loudly with each step I take across the marbled floor. I drink him in, the light gray sweater he’s wearing, his navy slacks, his freckles scattered across his cheeks like constellations.

I feel a little breathless when I stop at his side. My heartbeat is too loud in my ears. “Aurelio.” I can smell him this close, a mix of soap and something vaguely herbal. I gaze up at his face, a little closer than normal with my heels. “You look nice.” It’s weak, but I don’t know what to say.

He leans down, achingly slow, and presses a kiss to my cheek. He draws back to make eye contact with me again, and I’m sure I look stunned. My cheek practically burns. “Amy. You look just as I dreamed you.”

“Dreamed me?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Sometimes, this feels like a dream.”

My lips tremble a little with want. Why would a man as kind as Aurelio want anything to do with Amy Bowman, the least likeable woman in tennis?