“Okay, fine. The bus it is, and never let it be said that Sam Bradford isn’t up for adventure.” He reached out a hand toward the back of my neck, but stopped short the second before his fingertips brushed my skin.
I felt the heat of them, the rub of his hard-earned callouses, and fought the instinct to lean into his touch. He pulled his hand back and settled it in his lap. I told myself I wasn’t sorry.
“Sorry. I almost forgot about our deal.”
“What deal?” I asked, feeling out of sorts. What did it mean, that he could make my brain fuzzy by almost touching me?
“That I wouldn’t touch you again until you asked.” He paused. “Are you asking?”
I shook my head, unwilling to trust my voice not to sound as shaky as my insides felt.
“Noted.” The way he said it made me think he’d noted a few other things, too. “Belgrade is perfect, actually. My friend Marija still spends most of her off-season there.”
An image of the tall, shapely girl with shiny black hair and a smile that had landed her more modeling contracts than tennis titles appeared in my head. I gritted my teeth. “She really goes back to Serbia? Don’t most of you guys live in, like, Monaco or Majorca during your six weeks off?”
“Again, a strange amount of tennis-world knowledge for a girl who ‘doesn’t keep up.’ But you’re right. Marija is involved in funding orphanages in Serbia, and since she spends so much time away during the season with her commitments, she goes home for the holiday.”
“How nice.” That sounded snotty even to me. Jesus. Was I really bashing a girl who went home to a country still struggling in many ways to shake off a war to work with orphans?
“It is nice. She’s nice, and I’m sure we’ll be able to borrow a car.”
“Hopefully it’s not too flashy and doesn’t come with a driver.”
“She has a big family, I’m sure we can scare up something appropriate. I’ll call her. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. Don’t use your phone. We’ll use one at the train station.”
“Can I send her a Facebook message so she’ll answer the call? Girls like Marija don’t answer calls from unfamiliar numbers.”
“Dude, no girls answer calls from unfamiliar numbers.” I took a deep breath, telling myself to chill the fuck out. So, we were going to borrow a car from Marija Peronovic. No big deal. Maybe she would give me her autograph. I’m sure my dad could put her signature to good use. “Go ahead and message her.”
“Good thing I have a permanent international data plan.” He got out his phone and started typing. “Speaking of cars, what are we going to do with this one?”
“Leave it at the train station. Once we’re somewhere we can rest, I’ll use a public Internet café to e-mail the police back in Vienna with the location.” I flashed him a smile. “See? Borrowed. We’ll even fill it up with gas first. No harm.”
“You really are a strange girl, Blair Paddington. I think it’s one reason I liked you right off the bat in Switzerland.”
I swallowed, ignoring the little leap-and-flip my heart did in my chest. “Or you were trying to sleep with every girl you came across and I was ruining your goal.”
“You know, I can’t help my reputation. Or that people like me, girls included.” He lapsed into silence for the briefest of seconds. “In fact, I think we should get to know each other better so you can realize you like me, too. I mean, we’re trapped in a car, then a train, then a bus. What else will kill the time?”
“Sleeping?” I suggested. “Eating? Reading? Anything?”
“The fact that you’re trying so hard not to get closer to me during this whole trip only proves that you have feelings you’re trying to avoid, you know. If you really didn’t feel that . . . thing between us, you wouldn’t be such a bitch.”
“Oh, so I’m a bitch now?”
“You know you are. It’s your thing. It might work for you as far as putting the people off that you want to avoid, but I find it charming. For the record.”
“Fantastic.” More like he enjoyed a challenge. After watching him play tennis for the past five years, I should have guessed that none of this would go down as I’d hoped.
Sam Bradford the tennis player loved being the challenger. His level of play had dipped since becoming number two in the world, and he’d been knocked out of more than one tournament early by nothing other than his own lazy game.
But put him up against the number one in the world, and he sparkled. Kicked ass, ran down every ball, aced every other serve. He was bored playing those first weeks of a tournament—which wasn’t good for his career, or his winnings—because it was too easy. The conclusion foregone.