Dylan Read Free Page B

sky, and speedy little lizards scuttled past their feet. It was as if Mother Nature was working her magic all over the place, except when it came to her and J.T.
    “So, what else are you into? You know, other than tennis?” Dylan asked, hoping for something she could respond to in earnest.
    J.T. blinked as though he didn’t quite understand the question. “Travel, I guess.”
    “Seriously? I
love
to travel. I traveled here all the way from Westchester, New York.” She sat up a little taller.
    “New York? No way!” He leaned closer. “Have you ever been to Ashe Stadium?”
    “Come awn,
Ashe
me a hard one.” She rolled her eyes, managing to avoid admitting she had no idea what that was.
    “Okay.” His eyes crackled with electricity. “Grass, clay, or hard?”
    “Why choose one when you can have them all?” Dylan shrugged. Were those part of the spa package?
    “Most people have a favorite surface—even Federer struggles on clay.”
    “Sucks to be h—” She paused. Was this person male or female? “Sucks to be Federer.”
    J.T. shook his head slowly from side to side, the corners of his red lips curled in a you’re-quite-a-piece-of-work sort of way.
    But a good piece of work or a bad piece of work?
The uncertainty was making her palms itch.
    “So, what’s
your
favorite quality in a girl?” Dylan asked, hoping they still had a chance, even though they had different interests. After all, David Beckham hadn’t picked Sporty Spice—he’d picked Posh. And who said lightning couldn’t strike twice?
    “Well, I can tell you what I
don’t
like. My last girlfriend knew nothing about tennis. She was more into shopping,” he practically spit.
    Suh-nooozer!”
Dylan blurted, surrendering to his dark blue eyes, even though shopping did seem like the best way to fight the jet lag that was tempting her to yawn in his face.
    Just then, a warm breeze delivered a whiff of J.T.’s coconut-scented skin and rendered her powerless. So he was a little tennis-obsessed—she could pretend to be a size-four athlete for a week or two. How hard could it be?
    “I mean, do you have any idea what it’s like to talk to someone who goes on and on about something you have absolutely no interest in?” he asked, shaking his head.
    “It sounds awful.”
    He looked her straight in the eye with an intensity that made her pits itch.
    “My family has box seats for the Erickson-Sveningson match in three days. You should join us.”
    Dylan was tempted to Tom Cruise herself onto the chair and shout, “A
ten
just asked me out!” But she speed-nodded her acceptance instead.
    A warm smile spread across J.T.’s chiseled face, and Dylan had a feeling she’d be burping in front of him by sunrise.
    Suddenly, a collective gasp filled the tent. J.T.’s navy blue eyes drifted to the center of the crowd and held firm on the blonde standing beneath the pearl-coated chandelier.
    Svetlana Slootskyia stood petting her signature French braid as if it were a charmed snake. Her sleeveless, sequin-covered tennis cocktail dress shimmered in the setting sun, boldly announcing that she wasn’t going to hide from her scandal: in fact, she was going to shine. Her toned, tanned arms and long, slim legs more than justified her place on the cover of
Maxim
. But her narrow blue-green eyes and tight lips sent a clear message to her pervy boy-fans: “Don’t even think about it.”
    As soon as everyone realized they were staring at Svetlana, the hum of voices, random bursts of laughter, and the clinking of silverware resumed immediately.
    But J.T. didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.
    Dylan swiveled, once again following his dreamy gaze to Svetlana “IntimidatinglyprettyinternationalstarNikeendorsed
Maxim
covergirlWimbledonwinning” Slootskyia.
    Reality hit Dylan like a barrage of high-speed tennis balls. When she’d met J.T. in the tennis shop, he hadn’t been calling
her
hot—he’d meant her
dress
was hot. Specifically, her Svetlana for Nike