“No, because the business dude is not a professional athlete,” he answered her as obediently as if she were a kindergarten teacher asking what letter followed G. “Which means nobody gives a flying fig what Businessman Benjamin was doing. They care what Kat Kelly, the supposed professional tennis player was doing on top of the bar, shaking her ass and tits for everyone to ogle at.”
“My ass and… oh!” She growled and sat straight up, ignoring the twinge in her lower back. “Whoever said that is a total liar. It wasn’t even sexy! I was just lip-syncing to Taylor Swift. Taylor. Swift,” she enunciated. Everyone knew you didn’t shake your ass to Taylor Swift. You put on Beyoncé for that nonsense.
“They brought up the sex tape. Again. Because that’s what happens when shit like this gets noticed.”
She should be used to that by now. The reminder that someone had filmed one of the most private, intimate moments in a person’s life and spread it around the Internet like glitter at a craft fair. And like glitter, the herpes of the crafting world, this sex tape would never fully go away.
It shouldn’t cause such a clench in her gut.
But it did.
Fucking Igor.
“This is insane,” was all she could manage.
“What’s insane is that I thought for five minutes this plan might work. That you could realize just how far you’d pushed sponsors and even the tennis bigwigs, and how close they are to cutting your strings. You think they’ll be happy to have you on the Davis Cup team if they can’t trust you?”
She grimaced, but that was partially due to the elbow she pulled across her chest in another stretch. “They’ll love the publicity from someone whose name isn’t Serena or Anna. Brings recognition to the sport.”
“So that’s what this is all about?” Sawyer asked sarcastically. “You consider yourself some sort of women’s tennis ambassador, out there spreading the good word of the sport to all who will listen?”
“I consider myself an individual with free will,” she snapped back. “Sawyer, I’m here, I’m not running away, I’m not purposefully causing trouble. If trouble finds me, that’s not my fault.”
“When a client says that trouble keeps finding them, I find myself repeating that tired cliché of ‘What’s the common denominator?’”
Kat rolled her eyes and padded to the bathroom, cell phone still in hand. “I’ll behave Sawyer, I promise.”
“I’d have an easier time believing that if you weren’t speaking like a robot.”
“I’ll stay close to Michael,” she added. Because while she had no problems having fun, she also knew she didn’t want to just light a stick of dynamite on her last few years of play before walking away. “Does that help?”
“See that you do,” was all the agent said before hanging up.
Kat stared at herself in the mirror, lopsided, bedhead ponytail and all, and sighed. She needed to work out. Needed the burn. Needed the release.
Needed to wake her new, hot manny up, she realized with a wicked grin. Because she had marching orders.
“I’m coming!” Michael yelled as he pulled on mesh shorts one step at a time on his way to the door. It was the ass-crack of dawn, for Chrissake. Since the security desk hadn’t called up with a visitor, it had to be someone who lived in the building. And he was going to murder them.
Wrenching the door open, he growled, “What the fu-fudge do you want?” He amended his original word selection when he caught sight of Kat, instead of a practical joker teammate, standing on his doorstep. “Do you have any clue what time it is?”
“Nineish,” she chirped. “East Coast, anyway.”
“News flash, we’re on Mountain.” He scratched at his belly, leaning in the doorway to bar her entrance. “Problem with the apartment? You just have to call down to the concierge desk, and they’ll help you out.”
“No problem.” She patted his stomach as she aimed for the tiny spot between his torso and the door. Somehow she managed to thread the needle and land in his apartment. Magic. “I need to work out.”
“Cool story.” He waited for more, but she was too busy checking out his apartment. A mirror image of hers, probably, and nearly as impersonal. Same rented furniture, same generic-style artwork hung on the walls. He’d never considered redecorating or moving to one of the unfurnished apartments to have his own things. No point. There were better ways to spend his time and money.
While she evaluated his apartment, he evaluated her in return. Today’s outfit brought an entirely different kind of short-shorts… spandex, in electric blue. She’d paired them with a sports bra in the same hue and an unzipped gray moisture-wicking hoodie. Those unbelievably long legs of hers were capped off with a pair of well-broken-in running shoes, and her hair was in some complicated braid-bun at the top of her head.
She looked delicious. The growling in his gut was for more than just breakfast. His morning wood, which had begun to fade at the shock of the pounding door, woke back up at the sight before him.
Get it under control, Lambert. Get her out before you do something stupid.
“Going on a run?”
She turned toward him with a duh look on her face. “What gave it away, the running shoes or the running outfit?”
“Natural intuition.”