“Hey, it was a fucking accident.”
I shake my head and then notice Rich armed with his racket, keeping a wary distance. “You fucking twat,” I mutter, gathering myself and turning toward the clubhouse, my eyes scanning the area for what had me losing my focus in the first place. There’s nothing. No Lainey. But I saw her, I fucking know I saw her.
I stalk out of the court and make my way to the patio, leaving a bemused Rich calling after me. I know she’s been on my mind, but seeing things? I’m not that fucking mad. I ignore my mother when I pass her table, my focus on the clubhouse, my eyes scanning every nook and cranny for her.
“Hey, Ty,” a female says excitedly as I prowl on, ignoring the fact that she’s stopped to talk. I break into the bar, finding only a few people scattered around. But no Lainey. I pull to a stop, the adrenaline urging me forward now twitching my muscles. She’s been a constant in my brain from the second I encountered her in Long Bar. Her face has flashed through my mind every time I’ve closed my eyes, and sometimes even when I’ve had them wide open. I’ve imagined her in every position known to man—in my bed, on my desk, up every wall. Lainey Summer has got under my skin and now—even after I’ve had her—it’s itching like fucking crazy. “Damn woman,” I mutter to myself, pivoting to leave the bar.
I don’t get very far. Approximately two paces, if you want specifics. Because I spot her through the window on the terrace with a glass of wine in her hand . . . and a man opposite her. Another man. Not a man in his late-twenties, not a man in his mid-forties, not a Spanish-looking dude, and not a man pushing sixty. This one must be early-fifties. He’s laughing. She’s smiling. The smile that makes my manly knees go weak.
My feet are taking me out to the terrace before I’ve told myself it’s a bad idea, and I’m approaching the table, eyes trained on Lainey, because if I look at the bloke, I might do something stupid. Like find a racket and use his head as a tennis ball. I feel dangerously jealous, and I’m not afraid to admit it. This is the fifth man I know of. What the fuck is going on? I ignore my head telling me that I’m in no position to judge. I play the field, too. So what? Or did play the field. Playing hasn’t happened much lately, because I’m too fixated on Lainey. And it’s pissing me off. But while I’m suffering, it seems she, quite fucking obviously, is not. Was it an act? When she seemed to come over all emotional and said she didn’t want to go. Was that an act? Or did I hear the real Lainey after that? When she said, Come on, Ty. You’re not that guy. And I can’t be that woman.
What fucking woman, because I haven’t got a fucking clue who she is?
I arrive at the table and stare down at her, waiting for her to notice me. It takes a few seconds, but her laughter slowly abates, and she lifts her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks at me.
Her smile quickly drops. “Ty.” Her glass hits her table, and she sits bolt upright, making the Lycra of her tight sports top pull taut across her breasts. The sight is easy to ignore when I have other—dare I say it—more important things on my mind. Like who the fuck is this man? And what the fuck is going on with this woman?
The muscles in my jaw are pulsing, and it’s way past my control. “Hi,” I reply shortly, cocking my head a little in expectancy. Like, explain. Now.
She’s so nervous. Good. “I’ll call you?” she says. Is she joking me?
“Actually,” I smile, not caring if it looks as false as it is, “I just have something I’d like to run by you.” I indicate to the side. “Two minutes.”
“Um . . .” She looks to where I’m pointing across the terrace, chewing her bottom lip.
“Excuse me,” the guy speaks up, and I pray he doesn’t push my buttons. It’s unfamiliar to me, and I don’t like it, but I’m feeling unreasonably possessive. “Lainey and I are in the middle of a conversation.”
“That’s nice.” I keep my eyes on her, not engaging with the prick. Whoever he is. Who is he?
“There’s no—”
“It’s fine, Doug.” Lainey’s hand shoots across the table and lands on his where it’s resting by his glass of wine. Oh God, someone hold me back. “It’s probably just work,” she explains. “Tyler is my boss.”
“Oh,” he relents quickly, offering me a hand that I ignore. “Sorry, pal.”
Pal? I bore holes into Lainey’s nervous form, and Doug withdraws his hand after it’s been hanging in midair for an age. “Lainey attracts some attention, as you’ve probably gathered.” He laughs, like it’s funny men dribble all over her. “Someone has to fight them off.”
My head slowly turns toward the man, finally taking him in. If you can call him a man. Really, Lainey? “And the man who’s gonna fight them off, that’s you, is it?”
“Ty!” Lainey’s up from her chair in a second, horrified.
“I’ll wait for you over there,” I mumble, walking off before I make a tit of myself. Before I make a tit of myself? Too fucking late. I’d laugh if I wasn’t seething.
I plonk myself in a chair across the terrace and lower my head, looking up through a scowl as the man, a complete tosser, in my humble opinion, rubs Lainey’s shoulder in a gesture that can’t be mistaken for anything other than affection. And maybe a little reassurance. What does he think I’m going to do? I just want some answers, that’s all. Whether I’m owed them or not is of no consequence. I want them.
Lainey wanders over, refusing to meet my eyes, and when she makes it to me, she doesn’t sit. She just scowls. She has a fucking nerve. “I don’t know who you think you are,” she grates, “but I am not answerable to you.”
Well, that’s not strictly true, but I sense it won’t go down very well if I remind her who’s boss. Me. I’m boss. I mean, obviously, I’m the boss. At the firm she works for.
Quickly gathering my thoughts, I do what I should have done a few minutes ago. I analyze how best to approach this. Throwing my manly weight around isn’t the way. “Where did you go?”
Her eyes flick up in surprise. It’s quite staggering. What, she thought I wouldn’t want to know? Any other woman, I wouldn’t. If anything, I’d be glad they saved me the chore of brushing them off. “Home,” she says simply, not extending on that.
So I force her to. “Why?”
She sighs, looking over her shoulder to the man waiting for her.
I’m up from my chair in a heartbeat. “Him? Home to him?” She can’t be serious. She’s with someone? What about all the other men?
She swings around, shocked. “No.”
My body softens in relief. “Then why?”
“Just because,” she spits, her cute little jaw ticking not so cutely, her eyes blazing. “You have no place in my personal life, Mr. Christianson.”
I laugh. “No, but I had a place in your fucking pussy on Friday night, and I didn’t hear you complaining then.”
Her face is a picture of disgust as she lunges for me and slaps a hand over my mouth. The instant contact of her body pushed to mine is far more effective in shutting me up than her hand over my big trap. The resistance being locked down so I don’t grab her is overwhelming, making me shake where I stand. She’s shaking too, but she endures the tangible sparks bouncing between us. That fucking itch just got worse.