Page 32 of Courting Trouble
She turned off the shower abruptly and stepped out. God, if Delilah knew…
Cassie didn’t want this. Or maybe she did. And that was worse.
Thirty-Three
Delilah couldn’t sleep that night, not until the wee hours. She was too full of feeling. The movie was saved! By her! She was still going to be Tamsin Rowe! But she was still terrible at tennis! She still might fail!
It was a relief to drift off. At first. Then the dream started.
Cassie was there. At first, they were just talking, like they always did. A bit sharp, a bit sarcastic, a bitthem. But then something shifted. Cassie reached out and touched her cheek, and everything inside Delilah lit up like a switch had been thrown.
They kissed, and it didn’t feel like a dream. Cassie’s mouth, her hands, the sound of her breath against Delilah’s skin—it all felt real.
Delilah woke with a gasp, twisted in the sheets, skin damp, heart galloping.
It took a moment to remember where she was. Her flat. Her bed. Alone. But not untouched.
Her hand had already moved between her legs instinctively, as if her body had kept going without her permission.
She froze for a moment, as if caught, even though no one was there. Then she closed her eyes and let herself feel it.
It was just hormones. It wasn’t about Cassie. Not really. It was just every single thing that made her up. Her face, her voice, her mouth, the dark braid trailing down her back, those arms…
Delilah arrived with thunderous force. A truly shocking bodily reaction.
Delilah turned over and dragged the pillow over her face, groaning softly into it.
What the hell was happening?
Thirty-Four
Cassie was painfully upright by the ball machine, dropping balls into the basket. She hadn’t said much when Delilah arrived. Just a polite hello. Checked in about her ankle, painfully civil.
Because anything else might make her transparent. And that couldn’t happen. Delilah couldn’t even get a hint of the horndog her coach was.
‘You OK?’ Delilah asked now, her voice a touch too casual.
Cassie looked up sharply, guilty. ‘Fine. Why?’
Delilah shrugged. ‘You’re being very… polite.’
‘I’m always polite.’
Delilah laughed. ‘Not really. You’re more…’
Cassie felt exposed in that moment, like it was all going to come out on the court. She was sincerely frightened. But she batted it down with all her will. ‘What am I?’
Delilah didn’t answer. She was fiddling with her racket, face unreadable. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail today,just slightly uneven, like she’d done it in a hurry. Her hoodie sleeves were shoved up to the elbows. She looked strangely tense. Or maybe Cassie was just projecting.
Cassie looked down at the ball she’d just picked up. It was slightly scuffed. She tossed it and caught it again.
‘We’ll start with footwork,’ she said crisply. ‘Backhand recovery. You keep drifting on your exit step.’
Delilah nodded, too quickly. ‘Right. Yep. Drifting. Got it.’
They both moved toward the court like polite strangers playing roles in a 1940s public service announcement video about tennis.
Delilah positioned herself at the baseline, bouncing on her toes, with more bounce than seemed strictly necessary.
