TENNIS PLAYER AND A PLAYER

You were already on the court, sun in your eyes, racket in hand, stretching out the ache in your arms when you heard the familiar voice — the one that made your blood boil and your pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.

Jonathan Sinclair. Golden boy. Trust fund menace. Infuriatingly attractive. And your sworn enemy since the summer of Seven.

"Wait for me, m’lady," he called out in that signature drawl, dragging out each syllable like it was some kind of performance. His tennis racket clattered beside yours with a careless toss, and then he jogged toward you — grinning like sin under the July sun.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. But part of you smiled anyway — not on your face, just somewhere quieter. Deeper.