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He laughed. “Well, then…back the hell up. You’re way too close to the net. I don’t want to whack you.”
I backed up to the baseline. “Here?”
“More.”
“More?”
“Have you seen my tapes or not? I serve an average of 217 kilometers per hour.”
“I’m American,” I called and took another few steps back. “The metric system means nothing to me.”
“Typical,” he said, but his voice was lighter now. “That’s about 135 miles per hour.”
“Bring it,” I said.
He chuckled and shook his head. “Your funeral. Ready?”
“Ready.”
I watched him bounce the ball a few times, then toss it in the air. His body bent in a graceful arch, leg muscles coiling then releasing in a fast snap that took his feet off the ground. His arm whipped down, the racket connected, and the ball hit the service square in a perfect, blurred comet that zipped past me so fast, I hardly had time to register it.
“Well?” I called, still in my crouch. “I’m waiting. Serve already.”
He chuckled. “You blinked, didn’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I called back, trying to smother my own smile. Kai Solomon was devastatingly handsome, even with a perpetual scowl. But seeing him loosen up and laugh?
That’s the real him.
“You want another?”
“Not especially,” I said, walking toward the net. “Holy hell, that was fast. How is anyone supposed to return that?”
“They’re not,” he said, moving closer to the net too, bouncing a ball on his racket over and over with casual ease. “That’s the point.”
I slung my racket over one shoulder and shielded my eyes from the sun. Needing to shield
my eyes from him, he was so damn stunning. Sweat beaded on the dark skin of his neck and his shirt clung to every part of his broad chest.
“Tell me more,” I said. “About tennis.”
“You want a lesson?”
I indicated my dress again. “More like a verbal history. What’s the greatest shot you ever hit?”
He pursed his lips, thinking. “A banana shot I nailed at the Stuttgart Open last year.”
“A what?”
Kai grinned at me slyly. “Ah, my banana has peaked your curiosity?”
“Be serious. What the heck is a banana shot?”
Kai bounced a ball on his racket as he spoke. “It’s when your opponent hits a shot that pulls you out so wide, your return doesn’t even go over the net but around it. Yep, I hit a ripper of a banana in Stuttgart. But Rafa has the best banana shot in the sport.”
“Who?”
“Rafael Nadal. He’s the number two in the world and one of the greatest players who’s ever lived.”
