40-Love Page 5

  Those hazel eyes were hard to read, especially in the limited light, but they weren’t narrowed with suspicion or outrage. She wasn’t shaking her head, either. Wasn’t telling him he didn’t mean the invitation, or that it was automatic.

  Which it wasn’t. Nothing concerning Tess was automatic or easy, and despite himself, he liked it. Liked her. That insistent prickling at the nape of his neck be damned.

  “I…” Her hard swallow shifted the shadows delineating her throat. “I’m busy tomorrow. Belle and I planned out the entire day weeks ago.”

  Her birthday. Dammit, he’d forgotten.

  “The day after tomorrow, then.” He kept pushing, determined to make definite plans before she had too much time to think. Hell, before he had too much time to think. “We’ll do a picnic. Meet me outside the clubhouse, and I’ll take care of everything.”

  She was wavering. Tense and uncertain. He could see it in the way her soft mouth pursed and released, hear it in the crackle of the water bottle compressing in her grip.

  “Please, Tess.”

  Why was he pleading with her? If he wanted female company, he had plenty of options. Options who didn’t respond to flirtation with an eyeroll and a truculent chin-raise. Options who’d accept an invitation to lunch without—

  “Okay.” Two soft syllables, spoken with a firm little nod.

  As relief wobbled in his knees, he leaned more heavily on the net. “Can you do a late lunch? Half-past one?”

  A tentative smile tilted her lips. “That should w—”

  “Hey, tennis boy! Did you get our texts?”

  The shout from outside the court made Tess jerk, her shoulders stiffening. Seemingly on instinct, she backed several steps away from the net. Away from him.

  Fuck. The moment was gone, and if he gave her half a chance to consider all the reasons he wasn’t a good bet for a woman like her, she’d retreat from their lunch date too.

  He swung to face the interloper, his brows drawn together in warning. “Brendan, no one’s supposed to interrupt my lessons. That includes fellow employees.”

  Brendan raised his hands, palms out. “Sorry, dude. You never work this late, so I thought this was, uh…” He scratched the back of his head as he considered his wording, jostling the brim of his backward-turned baseball cap. “An off-the-clock situation.”

  Lucas’s glance at his watch confirmed his colleague’s claim. His lesson with Tess had run way past its official end time. And fuck, she was eyeing the exit nearest the clubhouse, her expression guarded once more.

  If he climbed over the net to her side of the court, would that reassure her? Or make her run? “Look, Brendan, can we—”

  The other man was still talking. “—won’t do it again. But as long as I’m here, I might as well tell you. A bunch of us are heading to Emma’s place on the mainland to watch the game. I heard she made meatballs in the slow-cooker, so it’ll basically be like home for you, only with less furniture assembled via Allen wrenches.”

  A faint snort from the other side of the net heartened Lucas.

  He caught Brendan’s eye and nodded toward the clubhouse, his message clear: Get out. “Despite that heart-warming homage to my homeland, I can’t—”

  This time, Tess interrupted him. “You should go. I need to get back to work, anyway.” She walked to his bag and laid her racket on top. “Besides, if you ask nicely, I bet they’d even play ‘Dancing Queen’ for you.”

  He sighed. “Haha. ABBA jokes. Very creative.”

  “Thank you. I accept that compliment with the same sincerity with which it was offered.” She shot him a half-hearted grin and walked toward the exit. “Have a good night, boys.”

  Boys. Yeah. That was not a promising sign.

  “Tess…” He trailed off, unsure whether having her confirm their date would instead give her an opening to cancel it. “You don’t have to go.”

  “I really do,” she called over her shoulder.

  It was a risk, but he needed to know. Needed that confirmation.

  Just before she left the court, he spoke loudly enough to carry across the distance. “Half-past one, pigtails. The day after tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

  Her brisk stride faltered, and he braced himself.

  Then she began walking again, and her words floated through the shadows of the court. “Maybe I should. But I won’t.”

  Five

  Tess chose a discreet spot outside the chain-link fence surrounding the tennis courts, one partially shielded from the unforgiving island sun by swaying palm fronds. Close enough to watch and hear the tail end of Lucas’s pre-picnic lesson. Distant enough to evade his notice, especially given his preoccupation with his clients, a young couple in stylish tennis whites.

  If she’d picked her spot wisely, she wouldn’t end up a victim of heat stroke before their date even began, and he’d never know she’d arrived thirty minutes early to spy on him.

  Well, not spy on him. Observe him. Like she would one of her teachers.

  Yes, that was what she was doing. Certainly there was no spying or—God forbid—ogling involved. Despite the sway of his very round, very firm ass when he bent over and prepared to return his clients’ serves, or the delicious bunching of his shoulder muscles beneath his thin, sweat-soaked t-shirt as he hit a two-handed backhand.

  Nope. No ogling whatsoever.

  Although, if ogling had occurred, it would have been well worth the effort.

  In between periods of not-ogling, she watched him with the couple and discovered that his patient, well-informed guidance during her own lesson hadn’t been an aberration. The class had a logical, obvious structure, the clients knew what to expect, he paid close attention to both of them, and his advice was clear, practical, and stated with both knowledge and authority.

  He was a good teacher, and she knew good teaching when she saw it.

  He’d also left a dozen yellow tulips and a scrawled note wishing her a happy birthday at the front desk yesterday. Belle, delighted by the seeming success of her machinations, had literally squealed at the sight of the bouquet.

  Tess had underestimated him.

  Then again, he’d encouraged her to do so at their first meeting, and she still didn’t understand why. Why he hadn’t told her he worked at the resort and what he did there. Why he’d played the aimless flirt, when he was clearly more than that. Why, when he seemed interested in her, he’d chosen to hide so much of himself.

  That lack of clarity—even apart from her other doubts, which were legion—had almost led her to call the clubhouse yesterday and leave him a message, canceling their lunch together. Even with those gorgeous, thoughtful tulips on her nightstand.

  She’d picked up the phone in her room and dialed the relevant extension three or four times, but in the end, she’d always replaced the handset back on the cradle. And when Belle had left for a noontime rendezvous with Brian earlier that day, Tess hadn’t used her limited quiet, private time alone in their room to work. Instead, after waving goodbye to her friend, she’d spent way too long contemplating her limited wardrobe options and considering Lucas’s possible reactions to each before finally throwing on a simple, comfortable cotton maxi dress.

  If that maxi dress showed an exuberant expanse of cleavage and its turquoise print suited her complexion, she’d told herself that was mere happenstance. But that had been a lie, and she’d known it even then.

  Just as she knew an objective observer would deem her current behavior ogling.

  When the lesson ended, the couple gathered their belongings. Lucas said his goodbyes and sprinted for the clubhouse, his large bag anchored to his side with one hand. With the other, he wrenched open the glass door to the little building, and then he disappeared inside.

  They’d agreed to meet for lunch in ten minutes. He was hurrying. For her and to her.

  That knowledge settled a few of her doubts, but not all of them, and not for long.

  Taking her time, she followed his path to the clubhouse a
nd stationed herself outside, trying not to think about the coworker who’d interrupted the end of her tennis lesson two days ago. More specifically, about how that coworker had appeared to be the same approximate age as her students. Twenty, max. Most likely around the same age as their friend Emma.

  Lucas hung out with those people. Partied with them.

  She was twice their age. Which was disconcerting, since forty suddenly didn’t feel much different from thirty-nine. Or twenty-nine, for that matter.

  Not that she’d anticipated a sudden surfeit of middle-aged wisdom as the clock struck midnight on her birthday, or foreseen her body withering and crumpling into dust with the turning of a page in her planner. But maybe, despite all her protests about the unimportance of the transition, she’d expected more certainty with the advent of her fifth decade on this earth. Tranquility. Calm acceptance of her life as it was, both its joys and boundaries.

  That hadn’t happened.

  Instead, there she stood outside the tennis clubhouse, sweating in the midday heat, forty years and one day old, awash with sensations she hadn’t experienced in well over a decade. After all this time, who knew she could still feel so…fluttery? So electric with possibility and doubt and risk?

  She’d dated after the end of her engagement. Had sex. Even called a man or two her boyfriend.

  But she’d never once reacted this way to them. God help her, but Lucas somehow unbalanced her, dizzied her until her tongue came untethered and said things—angry things, honest things, foolishly flirty things—a diplomatic, practical principal-to-be would never, ever say.

  Worse, her body rioted in his presence. Bloomed. Betrayed itself and undermined her slipping grasp on equanimity. And her too-hopeful heart…

  Well, the less said about that, the better.

  For a woman who was, above all else, pragmatic, it was all very disorienting.

  As was his sudden arrival at her side, that familiar bag once again hanging from his shoulder, the clubhouse door swinging shut behind him. The sun glinted off the wet strands of his thick, dark hair, limning its edges with copper. He smelled like some sort of outdoorsy-scented soap, and he was wearing a different outfit. Still shorts and a tee, but both were dry and unwrinkled. Heat radiated from his large body, more intense than the sun searing her scalp and bare arms.

  “Hey, Tess. Sorry I’m a couple minutes late.” He was smiling at her, his dimples deep, his olive-green eyes bright. “That’s a pretty dress.”

  His forefinger skimmed her arm in a fleeting moment of contact, and her breath caught at the sudden bolt of sensation. She stared at him, aghast at her reaction to that simple touch.

  Aghast and…well, terrified, actually.

  He’d positioned himself close to her, his shoulder propped against the side of the building. Only a couple feet away, people walked past them, and he didn’t glance in their direction, not even when she heard his name spoken. His focus remained entirely on her. And the way his gaze caressed her features…

  Lucas was still speaking, although she’d entirely lost track of his words. “—the perfect spot, I think. Will that be a problem for your knee? If so, I have another place we can go.”

  Wait, why were they talking about her knee?

  She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

  With a graceful shrug, he lowered his bag to the ground and peered into her face, his own now craggy with concern. “Are you okay? You look kind of…I don’t know. Out of it, I guess.” Gently, he rested the back of his hand against her forehead, then her temple. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Tess. I should have told you to wait inside the clubhouse. Heat exhaustion can happen more quickly than you’d think out here. Are you feeling okay? You don’t seem feverish.”

  His touch, his nearness, confused her. The echo of his words—the few she’d listened to—confused her. The explosion of damnable hope spreading sunshine through her every vein, every cell, confused her.

  She caught at his broad, warm hand. Held it, needing its stability as she floundered. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m so sorry I ran late.” Despite her answer, he was still ushering her into the shade of a nearby overhang, his fingers intertwined with hers, his other hand light on her back. “I didn’t think reheating the dips or packing everything in my bag would take so long, but that’s no excuse. Do you want some water?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath, the warmth of his palms a tease of sensation along her spine and against her own hand.

  “I apologize, Lucas. I was thinking about—” When she licked her balm-covered lips, his gaze dropped there, and she had to shake herself free from yet another near-fugue state. “I was remembering something I needed to do for work. But I’m fine, and more than happy to go wherever you’d like for the picnic.”

  His brow was still furrowed as he studied her. “Are you sure you’re not ill or overheated?”

  She was definitely overheated. But not for the reasons he imagined.

  “I’m fine,” she repeated. “But thank you for being concerned, and please don’t worry about being a minute late. You’re fitting me into a busy schedule, and I know that.”

  His lips tipped up again, and his brow smoothed. “It’s my pleasure. If you start feeling sick at any point, just let me know.”

  She waved that off. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  Obediently, he moved away from the wall, his hand lifting from her back. But their fingers were still intertwined, and he gently tugged her toward the sidewalk.

  “You know that’s supposed to be ‘Lay on, Macduff,’ right?” He steered them around a family stalled in the middle of the path and bickering over who’d misplaced their room keycards. “Since I’m Swedish, maybe it should be Macduffsson instead. With an umlaut somewhere.”

  So he knew his Shakespeare too. Impressive. “Language evolves. Over time, what began as an error can become its own correct idiom through common usage. Different from, but equally as valid as, the original phrasing.”

  “Fair enough.” He cast her a sidelong glance, full of what appeared to be…approval? Enjoyment? She didn’t know, but it definitely wasn’t aversion to her undeniable nerdy streak.

  To their left, various outbuildings gave way to gardens, then the start of a nature path that wended through a nearly-untouched expanse of the grounds. To their right, the sandy beach turned rocky, the waves churning into foam and sea spray as they smacked into the boulders. Still beautiful, but wilder. Less tourist-friendly than the rest of the island, which in turn meant fewer crowds and more privacy for their lunch.

  He’d slowed his stride in deference to her shorter legs, which came as a relief. She was built for comfort, not speed.

  “That reminds me,” he said. “I meant to ask you the other night, but I forgot. Before you became an assistant principal, what did you teach? English?”

  All relief fled as they rounded a bend in the sidewalk and their probable destination came into view. It was still a five-minute walk away, but easily visible. Which it would be, as the only real high spot on the entire island.

  She’d seen the steep, rocky hill and the panoramic overlook built atop it on the map, but hadn’t bothered visiting once she’d read the fine print on the resort guide. Accessible only by stairs, the brochure had stated, and she was avoiding those as much as possible, given the precarious state of her right knee.

  Dammit, she should have been paying attention earlier, not drooling at his mere proximity. Especially since this wasn’t just a single flight of stairs. No, the wooden steps went up…and up…and up some more. Maybe three or four flights in total.

  No wonder he’d asked about her knee. Very thoughtful of him.

  Too bad she hadn’t been listening.

  Getting up there shouldn’t be a huge issue. Given how much she walked around the school on a daily basis, her general fitness level was fine, and her knee usually didn’t bother her going upstairs. Getting back down, however…

  Well, that was an entirely different matte
r. And the tennis lesson the other night had done her joint no favors.

  “I taught psychology,” she told him absently. “I was part of the social studies department.”

  His little, interested hum vibrated through her. “What sort of things did you talk about in class?”

  Shit. The stairs looked even steeper up close.

  At the base of the hill, she slowed as she considered her choices. All bad. All painful in one way or another.

  She could climb the damn stairs and hope her knee wouldn’t protest going back down, although that seemed like a forlorn hope. But it would allow her to retain her pride. Unlike, say, her other main option.

  Because she hadn’t been listening as she should, she’d already said she could go wherever he wanted for lunch. Still, she could speak up now. Tell him she’d changed her mind. Explain that her knee probably couldn’t handle that many steps and ask him to find a different location for their lunch.

  Lucas would say yes, of course.

  Lucas, a twenty-six-year-old athlete who hung out with twenty-year-olds, would definitely change his plans in deference to the creaky, temperamental joints of his forty-year-old date.

  But nothing could epitomize the contrast between them more neatly than such a request, such an accommodation. All her pride would taste bitter on her tongue. It would choke her as she tried to swallow it.

  Maybe her knee could handle the stairs. She’d take it slow on the way back down. Stop to faux-admire the view—which really did seem as if it would be spectacular—along the way. Let the handful of other tourists on the stairs pass her by as she took photos with her cell.

  Or maybe somehow, magically, she and Lucas would never have to descend at all. They could stay up there forever, inviolate, illusions intact.

  She, of all people, knew better. A reckoning would inevitably come.

  But even a born pragmatist could pretend otherwise, if only for a moment.

  “Tess?” Lucas was looking at her quizzically.

  “Sorry.” She turned to him. Offered a smile that stretched her cheeks uncomfortably. “I haven’t been on this side of the island before. It’s really beautiful.”