Page 83 of Drop Shot
Pressing my lips together, I struggle to figure out how much to say. “I think I’m finally living again—living for more than tennis.” I give her a significant look. If she catches what I’m saying, she ignores it.
Maybe it’s for the best that she does.
We finish our breakfast, and I go to gather our dishes to wash them, but she quickly snatches them from me. “You cooked. I’ll wash. Besides, how long have you been on your knee?” I give her a sheepish expression. “Exactly. Go lay on the couch or in the bed and elevate. The heating pad is in my suitcase. It’s right on top.”
The couch looks hardly big enough for my long frame to stretch out on so I opt for the bed. It’s still rumpled from sleep. I lift the top of Whimsy’s suitcase and sure enough the heating pad is right on top.
It’s what’s beneath it that I’m not prepared for.
The bra is see-through with flowers embroidered along the edges of it.
Fuck.
I can’t help imagining Whimsy in the delicate fabric. I close my eyes and fuck, just the idea of it nearly brings me to my knees.
I take a deep breath and quickly close the suitcase. Plugging the heating pad in the with adapter, I lay down on the bed and pick up my phone, scrolling through social media as a distraction. Except my mind keeps wandering to the bra and wondering what other lingerie she might have stashed in there.
This isn’t working.
Exiting out of my social media app, I open YouTube instead and find another eyeliner tutorial to watch. The motion seems straightforward, but I can see why if she’s having a bad day with the tremors in her hands that she might struggle.
“Hey,” she calls from the kitchen.
I pause the video and lay my phone screen down on my chest. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to run and get some coffee. You want anything?”
“Sure.”
She breezes into the room and pops her suitcase open. She stills, eyes glued to the bra. She grabs it, quickly tucking it beneath other clothes before peeking at me over her shoulder. I pretend to be none the wiser.
With her outfit picked out she ducks into the bathroom.
When she emerges, she’s applied a little bit of makeup and brushed her hair. The plain white t-shirt hugs her torso and her denim skirt shows off her toned legs.
“What kind of coffee do you want?”
“I trust you to know what I want,” I reply, reaching for my wallet. “Take my card.”
She eyes my credit card with pure offense. “I can afford coffee, Elias.”
“I’m aware but let me get it.”
She rolls her eyes at me and heads out the doorway without taking it. A moment later the main door to the apartment closes. Well, then.
With a sigh, I put my card away and pick up my phone again. I Google Noah’s game and watch it live until Whimsy returns. Turning the heating pad off I get up and stretch before I meet her in the living area.
“That looks like more than coffee, Whim,” I comment, taking in all of the baked goods she’s unpacking.
She turns wide, panicked eyes in my direction. “I can’t resist a French baked good. Don’t judge me.”
Laughter bursts out of me and I shake my head. “God, you’re so fucking cute.”
It’s right there—the urge to cup her cheeks and kiss her—but we’re alone and that’s not my place.
Her face pinkens at my comment. “I’ll share them if you want some.”
“I’ll never say no to a pain au chocolat.” I point to the box.
