Page 42 of Beg Me

It’s impressive. She’s impressive.

“Markie,” I say when we break for a drink of water. “I mean it when I say this: you’re the best fucking pickleball player that I’ve ever played with. Damn.”

She tries to act like my compliment doesn’t affect her, but the way her eyes light up tells a different story.

“You’re pretty good yourself,” she says, sitting on the bench. “I expected more aggression, less precision. You surprised me.”

I take a seat beside her, resting my elbows on my knees. Sweat drips down my face, and my shirt is soaked. Markie’s face is bright pink, her hair matted to her head, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen a more attractive woman.

“What?” she asks, noticing me looking at her. I can’t tell if she’s blushing or if the color is simply from the heat.

“Nothing.”

She takes a towel from her bag and runs it over her face. “I’m sure I look gross right now.”

“Actually, I was thinking how pretty you look.”

“Oh, please.” She tosses the towel onto her bag. “You don’t have to be charming. You’ve already got the job.”

I chuckle, watching her redo her ponytail. “I’m not trying to charm you. I’m just being honest.”

“Jory, there is nothing pretty about me right now. It’s okay. It’s fine.”

I don’t want to fight with her about this, nor do I want to push in places that I shouldn’t. But the way she says it, the way she presses back against my compliments, makes me think she truly doesn’t believe me. That someone, some asshole she’s encountered before who had a delusion of grandeur, made her think that a little sweat is a bad thing.

“Do you know what I see?” I ask.

Markie doesn’t answer me.

“I see a woman who loves her game,” I say. “You’re passionate. You’re great at what you do. You might take it a little too seriously, and you might not trust your partner enough …”

She peeks at me out of the corner of her eye as the corner of her mouth lifts.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. As a matter of fact, that, Miss St. James, is fucking sexy,” I say quietly.

She turns her head, her eyes searching mine. There’s something in them, a glimmer that I haven’t seen before, and the sight of it wallops me in the chest.

It’s as if she’s come alive. Like a match has been relit. And watching that flicker, the flame growing hotter, is wild.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. “No one has ever really said that to me.”

“If there’s one thing that I’ve learned about you, it’s that you surround yourself with some pretty stupid men.”

She laughs, her smile never leaving her face.

“How do these fools fumble a woman like you?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

Her breath holds in her chest as my knuckles drag against her cheek. Her skin is so soft, so warm, that it knocks me off-balance.

I’m used to contact. It’s my job. And I’ve never quite understood it when people act like they feel electricity or a jolt of energy when they touch another person. But now? I get it.

She leans against my hand, and my thumb traces her jaw. Warmth spreads through my chest in a gentle wave, flooding every empty space in my body.

My brain tells me not to do this, that she’s not the kind of woman who wants to fuck around for a few weeks and then walk away like it’s nothing. There’s also a niggle that walking away from her at the end of summer might not be as easy as I think it would be. But when I withdraw my hand from her skin, I immediately want to put it back.

“Sorry,” I say, forcing a swallow. “You had a hair …”

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman?” she says with a grin.