40-Love

by Olivia Dade

  Dammit. “Okay, I’m crying about pie and chocolate.”

  He spoke in his most soothing voice. “If they’re upsetting you, there’s a family of raccoons behind one of the cafés, and if I set everything near the trash bins—”

  She pointed an authoritative, if slightly shaky, forefinger at him. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  Holding up his hands, he nudged her foot with his. “I promise to stop joking if you promise to stop crying.” He paused. “Or if you want to keep crying, go ahead, but please let me hold you. I’d be doing it already, but you said you were sweaty and didn’t want hugs.”

  Normally, this degree of overheatedness would make her eschew all physical contact for hours. Maybe days. But even more than a reasonable core temperature, she needed—

  Oh, Jesus.

  She needed Lucas.

  And he was right by her side, waiting for her.

  She launched herself into his arms, and he hit the back of the sofa with a distinct ooof.

  They waited for him to catch his breath before she spoke again. “Sorry. I probably should have warned you first. And made sure my knee landed in a better spot.”

  “I very much appreciate your enthusiasm,” he wheezed. “Just…give me a moment.”

  God, she was about to combust with their combined body heat, but it didn’t matter. The way he gathered her to him, cuddling her close even as he recovered from her errant knee, soothed something inside her she hadn’t even known was raw, and that rawness had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with her period.

  She needed to tell him. He needed to know.

  “I was crying because you’re so thoughtful,” she whispered in his ear. “Because you work so hard, but you still put in time and effort to make me happy and make me feel better. So I was crying about the pie and the chocolate, sure, but I was also crying about the booties, and about our picnic and the tulips, and about how you wanted to see me tonight, no matter what.”

  He gave her a fierce squeeze before his hold turned gentle once more. “You deserve effort.”

  She wasn’t done. “I was crying because you’re a good man, and I’m so sad you don’t live anywhere near me.”

  His palm skimmed along her spine, the steady movement both combatting and eliciting another wave of tears. “That’s nothing that needs to be solved tonight, Tess.”

  “And I was crying because I’m hormonal as fuck.” She sniffed, hard. “I can’t wait to be a crone with withered ovaries.”

  “Okay,” he said neutrally.

  “When I’m cranky, I’ll whack people with my cane, and no one will say anything.”

  “I think that’s still assault, älskling. Even if you’re post-menopausal.”

  She let out a sigh against his shoulder and slumped into him. “Dammit. I was looking forward to cane-related carnage.”

  “I’m certain you can find legal ways to torment your enemies.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I have great faith in your creativity.”

  “Thanks.”

  Slowly, her breathing evened, and the urge to cry diminished.

  “You never told me.” His voice surrounded her, vibrating against her chest. “Do you want some pie?”

  She shook her head. “Big dinner. I had guava and cream cheese empanadas for dessert. When I tasted that filling, I almost cried then too. It was amazing.” Tipping back her chin, she caught his eye. “I’m sorry I’m too full for the pie.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.” He didn’t sound or look concerned. “How are you feeling?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “About the same as when I called. Tired. Bloated. Crampy.”

  “I could heat up the booties.” Shifting her in his arms, he leaned over to retrieve the packages from where they’d fallen on the floor. “Doctors always say that Alpine-themed booties provide the most effective cramp relief available over the counter.”

  She stifled a snort. “No doctor has ever said that, not once, in the entire history of the medical profession.”

  “Are you sure?” His dimples popped. “I was certain I’d heard that somewhere.”

  “Just microwave the damn booties, Karlsson.”

  After one last kiss on her forehead, he let her go and got to his feet in one graceful motion. “I will. But first, I’m going to lower the AC to arctic-tundra levels. Hopefully that’ll keep the rest of you cool while you’re using the booties. Otherwise, you may simply melt into the couch.” Heading for the thermostat near the entry door, he tossed the next words over his shoulder. “I’m afraid for my security deposit.”

  He didn’t seem to hurry through any of the tasks he kept setting himself in pursuit of her comfort. Somehow, though, a mere five minutes later, she was stretched out along his couch, her head resting on a pillow in his lap, an icy glass of fresh strawberry lemonade within easy reach, four floral-scented booties tucked inside her shirt and warming her belly as the rest of her finally cooled to tolerable levels.

  He, on the other hand, had donned a faded blue sweatshirt with three yellow crowns on it. “Because the temperature in here is beginning to remind me of a Stockholm winter,” he’d told her. “Polar bears should come strolling by any minute now. Don’t worry, though, Tess. Swedes are taught to defend themselves from polar bear attacks as toddlers, lest our population dwindle to one old dude named Sven Svensson living in an ice cave. I’ll protect you.”

  More bullshit she was going to let slide, simply because she was so damn comfortable.

  He placed the remote in her hand and waved toward the wide-screen television in clear invitation. “I have lots of cable and streaming options. Pick whatever you’d like.”

  Well, he’d asked for it.

  She flipped through the choices in one of his streaming services until she found what she wanted. A few moments later, the black-and-white RKO logo appeared, and she snuggled her cheek into the pillow and waited for Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn to appear onscreen.

  “Bringing Up Baby?” He stroked a hand down her arm. “Interesting choice. Why do I feel as if I’m Susan in this particular scenario, despite my disappointing lack of a pet leopard?”

  After a jaw-cracking yawn, she smiled at the screen and modified one of her favorite lines. “Now it isn't that I don't like you, Lucas, because, after all, in moments of quiet, I'm strangely drawn toward you, but—well, there haven't been any quiet moments.”

  His body shifted beneath her as he laughed softly. “This is a quiet moment.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, and then yawned again. “Thank you again. For everything.”

  “You’re more than welcome.”

  His fingers threaded through her hair, sifting gently, and she raised a hand to rest on his hard thigh. It turned to granite beneath her touch, and his fingers stilled for a moment before he kept playing with her hair.

  The two of them watched the movie.

  Well, one of them, mainly, since she lasted only a few minutes before falling asleep.

  Nineteen

  When Tess’s eyes blinked open again, the picture on the television had turned to full, vivid color, and screwball dialogue had transformed into grunts of effort and intermittent commentary about second serve percentages.

  She could barely hear any of it. Lucas had set the volume very, very low.

  “I didn’t know if you still watched professional tennis.” She blinked blearily at the screen, trying to gather her fuzzy thoughts. “I thought it might be an unwelcome reminder.”

  His response was quiet. “I love the game. Despite everything. And I like to support my friends on the Tour.”

  Her hand was still resting on his thigh, and she gave it a gentle, consoling squeeze.

  As she shifted, something atop her moved, and she suddenly realized they were both covered in light blankets. She twitched a corner of hers. “I thought you were worried about my melting on your couch.”

  “After about half an hour, you got goosebumps and kept cuddling closer and closer.
” He leaned down and pressed a kiss on her temple. “I was afraid for my virtue.”

  “Your virtue is in no danger.” She shifted to her back and looked up at his handsome, craggy face. “Largely because it’s already dead. I suspect you murdered it long ago.”

  “There’s always the possibility of zombie virtue.”

  Her laugh jarred the booties, and the faintly warm weights slid to her side. “How long was I asleep?”

  “About an hour, I think.” His brow creased. “Do you want to sleep more? Maybe make an early night of it? You can stay here, or I can walk you back to your room, if that would be more comfortable for you.”

  Actually, she was beginning to feel more alert than she had all day. “I’m fine. Let’s watch tennis.”

  His body relaxed beneath her, and his lazy smile made the warm blanket entirely unnecessary. “Not Bringing Up Baby? I can restart it where you fell asleep. In other words, five minutes into the movie.”

  “Sorry about that.” She scrunched her face in apology. “It was a long afternoon, and I’m always tired the first day of my period.”

  “I understand, älskling. Don’t worry.” His forefinger smoothed the lines between her eyebrows. “How’s your belly feeling?”

  Tentatively, she levered herself up with one arm. “Better, actually. Much better.”

  “Alpine-themed booties.” He nodded, his expression suspiciously solemn. “The choice of medical professionals everywhere.”

  Ignoring his nonsense, she answered his earlier question. “We can watch Bringing Up Baby another night. I’d like to hear your perspective on the matches we see.”

  Wait. Had she been too presumptuous?

  She was assuming there would be another night, and maybe—

  “Sounds good.” His tone was pleased, not affronted. “But if you get bored, just let me know. We can watch anything you like, or have a snack, or go to bed, or…” He lifted a shoulder. “Whatever you want to do is fine by me.”

  When she sat up all the way, they weren’t touching anymore. She rectified that immediately, scooting until her hip pressed against his and she could rest her head against his solid chest. His arm encircled her, cuddling her close, and he began fiddling with her hair again.

  Her scalp tingled, and her spine seemed to melt.

  He smelled good. Felt better.

  Yeah. She could get used to this, too easily.

  Not going to think about that now. “Tell me about the players. This match is just about to start, right?”

  The women on court were warming up, from what she could tell, hitting balls to one another and practicing their serves while various graphics flashed on the screen, listing their head-to-head record, ages, prize money totals, and other information.

  “Within a minute or two, yeah,” Lucas said. “The player on the right is Danielle Forrester, an up-and-coming American. The player on the left is Lilly Tulu.”

  At Tess’s inquiring look, he elaborated. “Tulu is a former top-ten player. Swedish. The most accomplished female tennis pro my country has seen for a long time. She’s still all over the tabloids there, even though she’s been recovering from a hip injury for almost a year. We’ve met a few times over the years, but only in passing.”

  “What about Forrester?”

  He shook his head. “Never met her.”

  Forrester had her long, sandy-colored hair bound into a ponytail, and a red sweatband striped her tanned forehead. She bounced around the baseline and called out an occasional laughing comment to some spectators near her side of the court. Her family or coaching staff, Tess presumed.

  Tulu, on the other hand, concentrated on her shots with a fierce frown, her black braids bouncing against her slim, impressively sculpted back with every movement. She didn’t glance toward the crowd once, but Tess got the sense Tulu—older than Forrester by four years, according to the graphics—didn’t miss much.

  When the chair umpire called time, the women walked back to their benches and took several final gulps of their drinks before the start of the match.

  “So your Swedish compatriot is the favorite to win, I assume?”

  “Normally.” His brow furrowed as the players took their positions for the opening game. “But her injury may make this a more competitive match than she’d prefer.”

  Forrester tossed the first ball in the air and served wide, and Tess and Lucas settled back to watch the close, hard-fought contest. Tulu won the first set, but only barely. The tiebreak ended when her opponent double-faulted, and the Swedish player retreated to her chair by the side of the court, mouth pinched, and downed another bottle of sports drink.

  After the coaches finished brief visits with their players, Lucas turned to Tess. “What did you think of the set?”

  “They’re incredibly talented.” The honest truth. “Both of them. I can’t even imagine being able to move that way, or hit with that much accuracy.”

  “Practice.” Lucas shot her a quick smile. “Lots of training and practice.”

  She had nothing more to contribute, despite her enjoyment of what she’d seen. “What are your thoughts about their play so far?”

  Eventually, she wanted to hear some behind-the-scenes stories and gossip. But right now, she was more curious about what Lucas had noticed on that screen. How his experience informed and changed his perspective on the match. What she’d missed in her ignorance.

  As the women left their benches for the start of the second set, Lucas shook his head. “If I were Lilly’s coach, I’d have used that visit to discuss a few specific fixes, instead of just encouraging her to focus. Her ball toss is too far behind her, and she’s ceding too much ground when Forrester serves. She needs to get closer to the baseline.”

  Fascinated by the concentration creasing his forehead, the sharp intelligence in his gaze as he studied the two women, she nudged his shoulder with a forefinger and tried not to press her thighs together. “What would you tell Forrester?”

  “Her coach was dead on. She has to work on her movement. Instead of lunging for the ball, she needs to get her legs going and take smaller steps. If she did, she’d have much more control over her shots.” He blew out a breath. “But a lot of that will come in time. After this tournament, I’d also suggest some doubles matches to improve her play at the net. Maybe—”

  After glancing at Tess, he paused. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Competent men murder my vagina. In the best possible way.”

  Instantly, he turned away from the television, his head bowing so their eyes could meet. “Is that so?”

  His voice had deepened. Turned gravelly in a way that shivered down her back.

  “Yes. Which makes my current state unfortunate.” She sighed. “I know sex is possible right now, but I’m just not a fan of mess.”

  His arm around her shoulders drew her closer to his heat. “You know, I’ve heard—”

  “So let’s change the subject and discuss whether you ever considered coaching after you left the Tour.” Tilting her head, she studied him. “Maybe the idea doesn’t interest you, but with your knowledge and communication skills, you’d clearly be amazing at it.”

  His mouth opened. Closed.

  It took him a while to answer. “I didn’t really consider the possibility, no.”

  In one way, she hated to say all this, since becoming a professional tennis coach would require him to traverse the globe once more. It would literally and figuratively distance him from any possibility of a future together, however slim that possibility might be in the first place.

  But he needed to understand. Needed to acknowledge the gifts he had and the options that lay before him.

  In the end, their time together might be brief—and for all he’d given her, she had so little to offer him in return. As her ex always said, she was no good at emotions, just pragmatics. But this…this, she could do. This, she could give him.

  “The other night, I was thinking what an incredible tennis comment
ator you’d be too.” Funny. Charming. Handsome. Reliable. Sharp as the paper cutter in the school’s copy room. “But I’m sure you must have weighed that option before.”

  His chest rose beneath her in a hitching breath, then fell again.

  “No,” he finally said. “I can’t say I have.”

  That had to be enough of a nudge for the moment. They had other issues to discuss, unfortunately.

  “Lucas, I need to talk to you about something.” Flattening her hand over his heart in mute apology, she looked up at him. “I want to spend some time with Belle in the evenings. We don’t live in the same place anymore, and she’s my best friend. It’s not right to leave her alone every night during a trip we planned to spend together.”

  His mouth pressed tight for a moment, but he nodded. “I understand.”

  “I also need to start working again. Not as much as I was”—and if that was a mistake, it was hers to make—“but sometimes. Maybe for an hour or two every other night.”

  “Okay.” His tone was neutral. Unusually so.

  Shit.

  Her fingers curled, folding into her palm. “Not that you necessarily want to spend every night with me. I’m sure you have other pl—”

  “Tess.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I want to spend every night with you. I want to spend as much time with you as I can before you leave.”

  “Oh.” She let out a relieved breath. “Then I’m sorry that time will be somewhat limited.”

  His smile was wry. “That was always going to be true, no matter what. And like I said, I understand.”

  “Speaking of work...” Her hand flattened on his chest again. “I have a favor to ask.”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Whatever you need.”

  “I was hoping you might keep me company while I’m working,” she said. “I’d love to have someone I could brainstorm and discuss ideas with, and Belle’s already given her opinion on everything. Can you be my new sounding board? Please?”

  He simply stared at her for a moment, face blank.

  “I haven’t talked to anyone else about my plans. Just her, and”—she flashed him a tentative smile—“you, that other night on the tennis court. I’d like to tell you more.”