“No.” She cleared her throat, but her voice still came out hoarse. “I’ve missed you too much to go back to the way things were. But you also confuse me and piss me off in equal measure. I just need some space and for you not to be so damn attractive.”
A tiny spark of hope glowed in his chest. She wasn’t completely shutting him out.
“Okay. I’ll go now, if you promise that you’ll answer my phone calls and return my texts so I won’t worry so much.”
“Fine.” She sighed and turned to face him, propping her shoulder against the fridge. “I’ll return your calls and texts, but you have to promise to give me some space at least through Qatar. I need to stay sharp and get on a roll.”
“That’s fair. In the meantime, I’ll squash the story with Joey for now. I’ve got a few ideas I can use to get her onto another story.” The Qatar tournament was too insular for him to sneak away to spend time with her anyway, and it would be the first tournament he’d covered without Bruno. He let her walk him to the door. “But at Indian Wells, all bets are off. I want to spend time with you, even if it’s just dinner in your room.”
“We’ll see.” She gave him a sassy smile before holding the door open. For a moment, he thought she wanted him to kiss her, but he didn’t. Let her miss him a bit even if it killed him.
The street was thankfully quiet after the echo of Em’s door closing faded and empty of any suspicious cars. Walking to his rental, he climbed in and punched Joey’s number.
“Tell me you have some juicy news for me,” Joey demanded.
Rob had hoped to get her voicemail, but that was too much to hope for on a day that definitely hadn’t gone his way. “Sorry. Checked around with a couple of reliable sources down here. Looks like the stalker rumors were just that—rumors.”
“Really?” Her voice deflated a little. “Nothing we can use? Not even another source confirming it?”
It should have bothered him, how easy it was to lie to his boss, but even as annoyed as he was with Em, he wasn’t going to let Joey go down this path. It was too dangerous. Giving this guy national media attention would take this to a whole other level of bad for Em. “Nope. No one knew what I was talking about when I asked.”
“Well, shit.” She paused. “Maybe we should go with one source. Emerson Grace is a hot name now. Any story about her boosts our ratings and our website traffic by double-digit percentages.”
His gut clenched. That’s all Joey thought about. Driving up site traffic and ratings were part of her job, but the woman was more intense about it than anyone he had ever met. Reining her in on this would be harder than he’d expected. “I don’t think we want egg on our face with this one. If we’re wrong, it’s going to cause a lot of problems for everyone involved. And it’s not fair to stir shit up if there’s nothing to the rumors.”
“Fine. I guess you’re right. There are some big tournaments coming up. Maybe she or Naumov will do something that’ll get us some ratings there,” she mused. “Get your ass back here ASAP so we can get a game plan in place for Qatar and Indian Wells.”
“I’m on a flight tomorrow night,” he said before hanging up.
He sighed with relief. That bullet was dodged, at least for the moment. She wouldn’t let this go, but he’d deal with it if it came up again. His plans for the evening shot, he drove through the cool February night, finding himself at his parents’ Miami house, his frustration with Em for pushing him aside still churning under the surface. Seeing his dad now was the last thing he needed, but the last time he’d checked, they were supposed to be gone until tomorrow. Using his key, he slipped into the house and let the darkness embrace him.
This was not the way he’d seen his night going. Going to bed—alone—at his parents’ house? God, he’d been such an idiot to think that she’d welcome him with open arms and give him a real chance. Okay, so deep down he’d hoped that’s exactly what would happen, but nothing ever went as expected when it came to Em. She was the most complex woman he’d ever met. A smart man would give up, but no one could ever accuse him of being smart, especially not when it came to her.
Drained from the worry over Em’s stalker, the anger over her rejection, and the mind-blowing sex, he dropped off to sleep the second his head hit the expensive guest room pillow. He spent the night drifting between dead sleep and vivid dreams of the night he’d planned with Em.
By the time he woke up, he was as tired and angry as he’d been when he went to sleep, and he was hallucinating the scent of coffee. Pulling on his clothes, he padded down the sleek, modern wood stairs to the kitchen. As he approached, voices and the sounds of pans banging and sizzling food drifted toward him.
“Mama? Dad? I didn’t expect to see you here yet.” He stood in the doorway, blinking sleepily at his parents. His mother, still as whip-thin and blond as she’d been the day she first stepped onto the court as a pro, stood at the stove with a spatula in her hand. His father, hair more silver than gold now, sat at the glass breakfast table, tablet in front of him and a mug of coffee in one hand. Both were perfectly pressed and dressed, the picture of an older married couple ready to start their day.
“Well, we didn’t expect to see you either, Älskling. What are you doing in Florida?” Brigit offered up her cheek expectantly, and he obligingly went over to kiss it, snatching a piece of turkey bacon off the plate at her elbow.
“I had to do a quick research trip and visit a friend before my trip to Qatar. I’m heading back to New York tomorrow.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and went to sit across from his father.
Robert Ashton Junior was still a giant of a man, his very presence filling the room. As a kid, Rob admired how Bobby’s personality drew everyone to him, but as an adult, he found it abrasive and unsettling. So different from Robert Ashton Senior. Rob’s grandfather, the one who’d raised him more than his parents ever did, had a big personality, but he used it more gently, more thoughtfully. He let his tennis speak for him, rather than flashing his talent to whoever was closest or trying to impress them with his pedigree. Granddad had always taught Rob to follow his lead, whether it was on the court or in the quiet hours before dusk when they sat and whittled together, and somewhere along the way, Rob started to lose that in his need to please Bobby.
Bobby glanced up at his son, a narrow-eyed look. “A friend, huh? What kind of friend?”
“Just someone I know. We try to see each other a few times a year. I’d planned to stay at my friend’s house last night, but she—they had something come up, so I needed a place to crash.”
“You’re welcome here anytime, min son.” Brigit ruffled Rob’s hair as she placed a platter of pancakes and bacon on the table. She took a seat beside him. “I’ve been so proud of your work. Your stories are much better than that slob Bruno.”
Bobby snorted. “A blind man could do a better job covering tennis than Watson.”
Rob gritted his teeth and kept his attention on his food. His already raw temper didn’t need to deal with his father’s bombastic opinions and not-so-subtle digs.
“Bobby!” Brigit gave his father a look across the table. They’d always had an unspoken language that Rob and Maren couldn’t decipher. This was loud and clear, though. Since his injury, she had become more protective of Rob, and she didn’t like it when his father criticized him.
“Don’t ‘Bobby’ me, Bree. Our son could be doing so much more with himself, but instead he’s working as number two to an idiot like Bruno Watson. I want what’s best for him. You know that.” Bobby’s tight smile did nothing to make Rob feel any better. His father wanting what was best for him was how he’d gotten here in the first place, sitting at his parents’ kitchen table instead of laying curled up in bed with Em. His father had been the one who convinced him all those years ago that Em was a nobody that would only distract him from becoming another star in the Ashton constellation.
“You could be great. You could be better than me if you had half a chance. But she’s an upstart, so her career wi
ll always come before you. You need a woman who will sit in your box and cheer you on, not one you’ll have to battle for time on the practice court.”
That’s what Bobby had said when Rob refused to break up with Em after the Olympics. He still remembered how those words ate at him as a twenty-two-year-old. Hearing his father finally say he could be as good as the great Robert Ashton Jr. was everything he’d wanted to hear. Growing up, he’d craved his father’s attention, for him to see how hard Rob worked, how much Granddad Robert taught him. Then, the first time Rob thought about a life beyond tennis, his father had decided to see him and his potential, the bastard.
Looking back, Rob hated that he’d taken those words as gospel. His father’s whole life had been about tennis. He’d managed to retire with minimal injuries and still in the top five players of the world. Bobby Ashton didn’t know what it was like to have the choice taken from him, to have his work taken from him in an instant. He had no clue what it was like to realize he may have missed the chance to have a life with the woman who meant the most to him, all because of stupid pride.
“I like my job, Dad. If I can’t play tennis, I can at least report on those who can and help drive the conversation. Not all of us can play in charity matches or sit on our high horses doling out advice on things we don’t know anything about.” He stood up and gave his mom a tight smile. “I’m going for a walk. Thanks for breakfast, Mama.”
He wandered around the expansive backyard, barely seeing the tropical flowers that filled the beds his mother’s gardener lovingly tended. Without realizing where he’d gone, Rob found himself on the tennis court they’d built at the back of the property. The sound of the hard court under his shoes, the breeze across the net—this was home, more than anywhere else could be. Grabbing a racket from the small equipment shed, he gripped it, savoring the coarse texture of the grip against his palm. He grabbed a ball canister and removed a fresh green ball.
Yeah, this was where he belonged.
His grandfather had a court like this at the house where Rob had spent most of his childhood. They’d spent hours on that court, Gramps’s withered hands gently guiding Rob’s, laying the foundation for the techniques that Rob relied on until the day his shoulder died. He could almost see Gramps sitting on the bench along the side of the court, his long fingers moving whatever piece of wood he was whittling then, his eyes sharp as he watched Rob practice.
Bouncing the ball, he gave in to the urge to hit it against the backboard set up for solo practice. The ball flew back at him, and he hit it again with an easy forehand. He repeated it twice, three times, then four without his shoulder reacting. Wanting to test it, he moved back and used a backhand on the next shot.
“Robert. What are you doing?” His mother’s voice cracked through the air as a shard of pain arrowed through his shoulder.
He winced and let the ball bounce past him. “Just blowing off some steam.”
“Hmm. Like a true Ashton,” Brigit said, stooping to pick up the ball. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve found your father hiding on one court or another, hitting a ball rather than talking.”
“Talking won’t do me much good with Dad, will it?” He already knew the answer. It’d been the same his whole life.
His mother shrugged. The wind barely mussed her long, blond hair thanks to the tight bun she contained it in every morning. “Your father isn’t the easiest man to live with. You and I know that better than anyone in the world. But I also hope that you know he does what he does and says what he says from a place of love.”
So many things popped into his head to say, but he bit them back. His mother’s love for his father let her overlook a lot. She didn’t see how much criticism his father targeted at him. Maren got her fair share of the pressure, but she was the first Ashton female to play tennis, so she had more room to breathe. Rob had the family legacy resting on his shoulders, and he never did enough in his father’s eyes. Brigit’s family wasn’t demonstrative, but they always let her know how proud they were of her career, no matter what she did. Coming from that sort of family, she didn’t fully grasp the politics of the Ashtons.
“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know, Mama. I’m—I like my new job as much as I’d like any other job. Would I rather play tennis? Hell, yeah.” He twirled the racket in his hands. “But I think I’m good at this. I…I’m back in control and doing something well. I have the chance to change the conversation for the better.”
“You are, Älskling. I have never been prouder than when you stood up for Emerson Grace.” She wrapped an arm around him and led him back toward the house, setting the racket aside as they went. “That showed real maturity, min son. Much has passed between you two, but I’m glad you stood up for her. Overlooking all of the hurt tells me that you are more than capable of doing your job admirably.”
Emerson. Even her name made a smile tug at his lips. He was glad his mother was too short to look him in the eyes from her current position. Things with Em were still a mess; anger and hurt lurked deep down between them. Anger from how they’d ended things before and anger that they couldn’t pick up where they’d left off now. But being with her felt right—more right than anything else in his life, including his job—and that gnawing ache that tore at him all during his recovery had slowly started to ease, despite the lingering questions.
He wanted to show Em it was safe to be with him, but he didn’t know what he’d do once he did. Loving someone terrified him more than his first professional match. After growing up playing second seed to the great love of Bobby and Brigit, he couldn’t contemplate the idea of giving himself over to another person with that level of commitment. All he knew was he needed to spend as much time with Em as he could. The only problem was convincing her to let him.
****
Em stood at the service line, bouncing the ball to draw the moment out. Her final round opponent, Annika Mattherson, shifted on the opposite side of the court, her body coiled to spring. The twenty-year-old put up a good fight, but she’d faded early under the hot California sun. All Emerson needed was one more point, and she’d have her second title of the year.
Tossing the ball up, she relished the sound of the ball connecting with the racket’s sweet spot. It sailed toward Annika, landing just shy of the baseline, barely leaving room for Annika to take a swing at it. Her weak swat and a lucky wind sent the ball into the net where it limply rolled back toward the Norwegian player.
The crowd roared their approval, and Em indulged in a moment of contained celebration. Zoe gave her a nod from her player’s box. It took her back to her early tournaments when she and Uncle Leo and Uncle Nathan sat there with Papa Vic, cheering her on through every point.
She took Annika’s hand and gathered her things, nodding to the big burly bodyguard Amir and Owen insisted follow her around throughout the tournament. They’d made it through the Qatar Open without security, but another letter while she was gone made it impossible for her to deny their request.
Rather than showering first, she went to the press room, Amir by her side. The questions—thank God—mostly focused on the match until the last one.
“So tell us, Emerson, now that you and Kole have split up, is there a new man in your life? Or is it men?”
The question came from a snide little reporter from one of the local papers, his bow tie and plaid shirt screaming pretension. Em struggled to keep her expression neutral. “I’m not sure what that has to do with the tennis match I just finished.”
“Come on. You’re the sex kitten of tennis. Everyone wants to know who your latest conquest is,” the reporter pushed. “What lucky guy have you lured into your bed this week? I’ve heard there’s talk of you and Ryan Gosling hooking up over the weekend.”
“I heard it was Chris Evans the night before. Naughty girl,” another reporter chimed. They all jumped in with their own theories, hurtling them at her faster than the balls Annika had hit during the height of the match.
The sex kitten of tennis? T
hat better not stick. Anger boiled inside her, pushing all the buttons she’d kept control of throughout most of the original sex scandal. She hadn’t expected any of this. She’d thought she could get back to tennis being the focus and not who she was screwing or not screwing. Men like Kole and Rob and Owen never had to deal with this level of bullshit. She glared at Amir before fixing the reporter with her back-the-hell-off stare. “I don’t comment on my personal life or tawdry, fictional stories about my personal life. Have a good evening, everybody.”
She floundered out of the press room, the bodyguard trailing behind her. The last thing she wanted to deal with right now was more stories about her sex life—especially when she barely had one—but apparently, the press wasn’t willing to let it go. Hearing those questions, being called a sex kitten in front of a room full of reporters, took her back to the worst of the shit storm that had followed the photo leak. All she wanted to do now was escape and forget that the idiot reporter had even tried to drag her back there.
The sun was starting to creep low in the horizon. They’d been the last match of the day, and she knew exactly what she wanted to do once she’d showered off the thick layer of sweat. She’d been in California for twelve days, first doing press events, then playing through today’s final match, and she’d yet to see Rob except in passing or on TV.
Those twelve days had been spent trying to convince herself that he didn’t matter. That she didn’t want to see him. But damn it—he’d been slowly waging war on her defenses since he left her house. Sweet text messages and long phone calls when they had the time. He reminded her of the boy she’d met that first day in London, so considerate and funny. While she enjoyed the attention, it did little to help her make sense of what he made her feel.
He didn’t press her for more, he was just—her friend. He said all the right things and asked the right questions. The second she won the Qatar Open, he’d sent her a text congratulating her and teasing her about her second serve again.
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