Page 7 of Claimed At First Sight

The words are simple enough on the surface, and yet the way he says them lingers just a fraction too long.

Head in the game, Mia.

“Twenty all,” Mari says, laughing. “We’re going to win.”

“Keep dreaming.”

I roll my shoulders, grounding myself and trying to ignore the man standing far too close beside me.

The next few points turn into a battle. Every time we pull ahead, Isa and Mari catch us again, the two-point lead needed to win always just out of reach.

By now, even Mari has stopped laughing.

Isa sends the shuttle deep toward the corner, and I know immediately I’ll never reach it. Apparently, my playing partner does too.

He moves before I can, crossing behind me and returning it with a sharp flick that sends Isa scrambling. Mari manages to keep it alive, but barely, and I’m already in position when the shuttle comes back.

The rally continues, faster now, until he drives the final shot into the open space behind Isa.

Twenty-four–twenty-three.

Mari pouts and looks toward the terrace, where Mateo, Mamma, and another man I’ve not seen before are watching us.

“You’ve got this, dolcezza,” Mateo calls out.

I don’t think so.

I grip my racket harder and take my position. One more point.

Let’s get this over with.

Letting muscle memory take over, I prepare to serve. Isa smirks at me from across the net, trying to distract me. I steady my grip on the shuttle, release it… and strike.

It cuts across the net at an angle that seems almost too precise and quick, dropping just inside the line before either Isa or Mari can react.

It lands.

No one moves or makes a sound.

I blink once, twice, waiting for someone to call it out, to return it, to prove it wasn’t what I think it was. But no one does.

We won.

A laugh escapes me. I turn without thinking, my body already shifting toward him, ready to throw my arms around his shoulders—

I stop just short of him, my pulse racing.

Neither of us moves. The intensity in his gaze is deliberate in a way that makes it impossible to pretend it’s casual, even though we just met and I don’t even know his name.

I step back, forcing distance between us.

“An ace!” I cheer. “We won.”

I raise my hand for a high-five, and he looks at it for a second before obliging. A corner of his mouth tilts as he slaps it.

“We did.”

There’s nothing in his tone that suggests surprise. If anything, it sounds like he expected it.