The Best Laid Plans

He frowned. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “You want to serve first …?”

Ethan’s gaze narrowed as he studied her. She adjusted her grip on her racquet and tried to look normal. Whatever that was.

Finally he shrugged and moved to the other side of the court. After all, it wasn’t as though they had the kind of friendship that went beyond the realm of the stuffy oak-paneled offices of Wallingsworth & Kent and the racquetball court. They might be the two youngest partners, and they might see eye to eye on most issues that came up during the weekly partners’ meetings, but she had no idea what he did in his downtime—although she could take an educated guess, thanks to office scuttle-butt—and vice versa. Their friendship—if it could even be called that—was made up of nine-tenths banter and one-tenth professional respect. He was the last person she would confide her fears in.

Ethan bounced the ball a few times before sending it speeding toward the wall with his powerful serve. She lunged forward, racquet extended, and felt the satisfying thwack as she made contact. In a blur of stop-and-go motion they crisscrossed the court, slamming the ball into corners, trying to outmaneuver each other.

He was taller than her, and stronger, but she was faster and more flexible, as well as having four years on him agewise. The result was that they usually gave each other a good run for their money—although Ethan was slightly ahead on their running scoreboard, having beaten her last week.

Tonight she went after every point as though her life depended on it, pushing herself until she was gasping for breath and sweat was stinging her eyes.

After twenty minutes she’d won the first game and was ahead by three points on the second. Ethan shot her a grin as they swapped sides for her serve.

“You’re on fire, slowpoke. But don’t get too comfortable.”

She didn’t bother responding, bouncing the ball and sending it slamming toward him instead. Another frenetic few minutes passed as they fought for the point.

“I pity him or her, I really do,” Ethan said after she’d won the battle with an overhead slam.

Alex tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Sorry?”

“Whoever pissed you off.”

“I’m not angry,” she said.

“If you say so.”

She prepared to serve again but he walked to the corner and grabbed a bottle of water from his bag. She waited impatiently for him to drink, tapping her racquet against the side of her sneaker.

They’d just started their third game when she went long, lobbing a shot at the wall. It hit the high line and ricocheted toward Ethan but he let it fly past him to hit the rear wall without even attempting to take the shot.

“One, love,” he said, his chest heaving, a big grin on his face. “Nice volley.”

“Hang on, that was my point,” she said. She wiped her forearm across her forehead.

“Sorry, it was out.” His tone was final, utterly confident.

“It was in, Ethan. Right on the line, sure, but the line is in.” She pointed toward the front wall with her racquet.

“Trust me, it was out.”

“Oh, well, if you say so, it must be right. I mean, it’s not like you’d ever lie to get your own way, is it? You’re a man, and if it suits you, I’m sure anything goes—until it doesn’t, right?”

Her words echoed off the hard surfaces of the court. There was a short silence as Ethan looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then she was looking at his back as he turned to collect the ball.

Heat burned its way up her chest and into her face. Talk about out of line.

“I’m sorry. That was really … I’m sorry,” she said.

Ethan regarded her for a long beat. “Maybe we should take a break. Or call it quits until next week.”

“No!” She heard the desperation in her own voice and tried to find the words to convince him to keep playing. It seemed vitally important that she be allowed to keep running around this small box, smashing the hell out of a rubber ball. She opened her mouth, but her throat seized and heat pressed at the back of her eyes. She spun away.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t you dare cry.

She stared fiercely at the floor, clenching and unclenching her hand on the grip of her racquet.

“Hey.” Ethan’s hand landed on her shoulder. “What’s going on, Alex? “

“I’m fine,” she managed to say.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m fine.” But her voice caught on the last word then tears were falling down her face.

“Shit,” she said under her breath. Of all the people to break down in front of.

“It’s okay,” Ethan said from behind her. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you can work it out.”

It was so far from the truth that she laughed harshly. “Sure I can. I can make myself younger. I can turn back time and make Jacob want to have a child with me. Hell, I can probably click my fingers and make myself pregnant.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth she was acutely aware of how much she’d revealed, how exposed she was and how really inappropriate this conversation was. This was Ethan Stone, after all. Mr. Suave and Sophisticated, her fellow partner. Just because they shared lunch occasionally and played racquetball regularly didn’t mean he wanted to know all the gory, messy details of her private life. And she didn’t want him to know. Work was work, this was … very private.

“Who’s Jacob?” Ethan asked.

“Nobody important. Forget I said anything.”

She wiped her cheeks with her fingertips and sucked in a shaky breath. She had to get a grip. Had to put on her game face and convince him that she was good and to forget what she’d said.

“Alex …”

“I’m okay. A little stressed, that’s all.” But the damned tears wouldn’t stop.

Warm, strong arms closed around her, pulling her toward a big, broad chest. Instinctively she resisted his embrace, trying to pull away.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said, the sound vibrating through his chest and into hers, his arms tightening around her.

Finally she gave in, although she couldn’t bring herself to return the embrace—that would be admitting too much, asking for too much. Instead, she stood with her arms hanging uselessly by her sides, her body rigid with tension, waiting for this moment of pity or sympathy or whatever it was to be done with so she could make her excuses and get the hell out of here.

He didn’t seem in any hurry to let her go, however. She could hear his heart beating steadily beneath her ear and she could smell his aftershave, something with sandalwood and musk notes. It had been a long time since she’d been held by a man—eighteen months.

She’d forgotten how good it felt.

Slowly, despite herself, some of the tension eased from her body.

“Nothing wrong with being upset, Alex,” Ethan said.