It felt as if my heart had been smashed to bits. I sat down on the bench, still not sure what had just happened, but knowing enough to realize that I had cocked it up once again. What had kept me silent? What had kept me from reaching for Emmy?

Pride. Fear. Guilt.

Pick a number.

Because looking at her, I’d been hit with the weight of my own stupid choices. I’d done this all wrong, I felt paralyzed. Even if I tried to take it back, would she ever forgive me? Could I even make it right?

And should I?

I’d seen what the press had done to her in just a week. Was it selfish to want more from her—knowing the barrage of questions and exposés would continue? Maybe it was better to let her go back to her life, back to blissful anonymity, without me around to fuck it all up.

Because that’s what I did in the end—what I always did. The black sheep, the spare. I wasn’t the man she deserved, and as much as it killed me to watch her leave, I had to believe she was better off without me.

There was a knock, and Declan entered. The look on his face indicated that he was surprised I was alone.

“She didn’t come?” he asked. “I sorted the whole thing with Paige.”

“She came,” I responded, grabbing my racket. “But I don’t have time for that kind of thing. I have a match to win.”

Pushing past him, I headed down the tunnel, out towards the court.

I had to get my head in the game.

This was my chance. The biggest day of my career. I had wanted to get to the finals for as long as I had been playing. And I wanted to beat Killian the moment I met that smug arsehole. Now I could do both. That’s what I needed to be focused on.

I closed my eyes, trying to clear my head, but all I could see was Emmy. Her quivering lip, her tearstained cheeks. And the defiant way she had stared me down.

“I was falling in love with you,” she’d said.

And I’d said nothing.

I shoved that aside. Focus, I told myself. Focus on the game. Focus on winning. Focus on finally doing something to make the family proud.

I may have screwed up everything else, but this was one thing I could pull off for them.

Outside, the sky was dark and overcast, looking exactly how I felt inside. Rolling my shoulders, I turned my attention to Killian, who was blowing kisses to the people in the stands. Wanker. I stepped out onto the court, and looked in the direction of my family box. Declan was there. But so was Hugh, and Annabelle.

I was surprised by how glad I was to see my brother. And he was there because of Emmy. Because she told Hugh to come. Somehow, within a week, that tiny, gorgeous American had found a way to bridge the enormous gap that had always existed between me and my brother. She had made the impossible possible.

But I didn’t want to think about her. Because I couldn’t think about her and play tennis. I couldn’t think about anything but the game.

Killian and I took to the court. I stretched my shoulder one last time as the crowd went quiet, waiting for the first serve. It was his. And it rocketed straight past me, cameras flashing, people cheering as he scored the first point.

As much as I hated to admit it, Killian was a good player. He had to be to get this far. But he was still an arrogant wanker, and that first point stung. I tried to focus on the ball, but it kept getting past me.

It felt as though I was moving at a different pace than anyone else—like I was in slow motion and the rest of the world was the regular pace. I couldn’t get myself to speed up or get back in the game.

In my languid stupor, I took in the cheering crowd and the flashing lights from the reporters’ cameras. Here it was. Everything I wanted. I was in the Wimbledon finals. And I had gotten there because of my talent—not because of my family’s name or status. There were people out there rooting for me. Fans and family. It was supposed to be the best day of my life.

So why did it feel like the worst?

Because none of it mattered. Because this, all of this, was pretty bloody unsatisfying without someone to share it with. Because, even if I won, I would be going home to an empty flat, or a bar full of strangers.

Emmy was gone. And I had let her go.

It was now clear what a colossal idiot I was.

She had never asked me to be anything other than what I was. She hadn’t cared about my royal name or how well-ranked I was. She cared about me. Just me. With everyone else in my life, I always felt as if I had something to prove. Not with her. Never with her.

Never mind Killian. The biggest wanker on the court was me.

After a revelation like that, I just wanted it to be over, but we were barely two games into the first set. I was playing on auto-pilot, my racket swinging—and missing—without any of the skill or finesse I was known for. I could hear Garrett yelling at me—no doubt he was wondering where the player he had been training with for the past year had gone.

I was playing like shite. Because I didn’t care. The game didn’t matter. The victory didn’t matter. Because I had been chasing the wrong thing. This whole time, I’d had exactly what I needed right in front of me. In my bed. In my arms. In my life. And I had let that go because of what? Because of my ego and my pride.

For the first time, I could see clearly. And boy, had I fucked up.

There was a loud crack, and a flash of lightning cut across the sky. It was followed by a raindrop. And then another. And then another. And then the clouds opened up and rain began falling in earnest. I missed another shot, and just like that, the ball-boys and umpires sprang to life.

“Play is paused for rain,” the umpire announced, scrambling down from his chair. Everyone raced to get the covers over the court and get inside, but I didn’t mind the rain.

I could see the disappointment on Killian’s face as we were ushered off the court. He had been winning—and winning well. I headed towards the locker room, where Garrett was waiting—poor Garrett, who had been yelling himself silly to no avail—but when I reached him I didn’t stop. I kept going, down the hallway, deeper into the complex until I found an exit door. I pushed it open, and stepped back out into the rain.

Wimbledon no longer mattered. I needed to find Emmy. I needed to tell her how sorry I was. I needed to tell her that I had made a mistake. That I trusted her. That I loved her.

That realization hurried my step. I loved her. I loved her. I loved her.

And I could lose her.

I dashed across the grounds, getting soaked by the downpour. I could hear people calling my name, and I must have looked like a madman, but I didn’t care.

All I cared about was finding Emmy.

I finally reached the refreshment tent and burst inside. I frantically looked around for Emmy. Instead, I found another familiar face.

“Paige!” I ran over to her. “Where is she?”

Her eyes were wide. “What are you doing?” she exclaimed. “You’re playing. Like, now!”

“Emmy,” I repeated. “I need to find her!”

“But . . . she left.”

“What?” My heart stopped. “When?”

“A few minutes ago,” Paige said, looking distraught. “She was going back to her aunt’s. She’s heading back to San Diego tonight. You could still catch her,” she said, perking up. “She went to catch the shuttle. She could still be there!”

I didn’t even pause to say goodbye, I just raced back out into the rain. It was falling heavily now, my tennis whites plastered to my skin as I ran out of the tent. Emmy hadn’t gotten much of a head start—I needed to catch her. I had to catch her.

I backtracked through the grounds, ducking through the crowds until I reached the front gates. Through the rain, I saw a small figure sitting at the covered shuttle stop, alone. It was Emmy, her arms wrapped around herself, her head bowed, hair forming a curtain in front of her face. My stomach twisted. I had made her feel this way. I had made her feel like she wasn’t good enough.

I didn’t deserve her. But I could try.

“Emmy!” I called.

Her head jerked up, and she looked around.

“Emmy!” I yelled again, still running towards her.

“Charlie?” she stood, peering at me through the rain.

“I’m sorry.” I was still several feet away, but she stepped out from under the protection of the covered stop and came towards me.

We met in the rain, water soaking us both.

“I love you,” I blurted out, barely able to catch my breath.

She stared at me, her beautiful eyes rimmed with red from all the tears I had made her cry. I wanted to take her in my arms, but I took her hands instead.

“I was wrong,” I told her, the words coming out in a rush. “I was stupid and angry and should have listened to you. I should have trusted you. I do trust you.”

“You do?” she asked.

I nodded, my hair spraying water everywhere. I barely noticed the rain, or the cold. All I could focus on was Emmy’s hands in mine. How when I squeezed her fingers, she squeezed back.

“I love you,” I told her again. “I’m absolutely mad about you, and the thought of you not being in my life is unbearable. I’m sorry I let you down. I guess I’ve been so used to people only caring about me for the status, it was hard to believe someone like you could want me just for me.”

“Of course I do,” Emmy sniffed, her tears mingling with the rain. “I love you too!”

Relief crashed through me. “Even though I’ve been a complete arsehole?” I asked.

She laughed. “Even though you’ve been a complete asshole.”

Suddenly her eyes widened, and she pulled her hands free and gave me a push.

“The match!” she cried. “Aren’t you supposed to be playing?”

“Not in the rain.” Then, unable to help myself, I gathered her in my arms. “And I’d be right here, with you, even if there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.”

“But it’s Wimbledon,” she looked up at me, eyes round.

“It’s you,” I told her. “You’re worth a million championship titles.”

There came a smattering of applause. Emmy looked around and blushed. “Everyone’s looking!” she hissed at me, but I only had eyes for her.

The rain was letting up, sunlight beginning to poke through the gray sky.

“You’d let Killian Black win?” Emmy asked.

“For you, any day.”

She untangled herself from my arms and gave me a stern look. “Well, I won’t,” she told me, grabbing my hand. “Come on, you’ve got a match to win.”

But before she could pull me back to the court, I brought her back against my chest, our soaked clothes sticking together. I cupped her face.

“What about my good-luck kiss?” I asked.

Emmy smiled at me. “It’s yours.”

I leaned down and pressed my lips against hers. The kiss was everything I wanted to say but didn’t have the words for. It was everything I felt, everything I was. I gave all of it to her, our lips fitting together as if they had been made for that sole purpose. Her mouth was hot against mine, and she tasted like home.

She gripped my wet shirt in her hands, our tongues tangling in her mouth. I saw stars, but then I realized it was just the paparazzi snapping away. With great reluctance, I pulled away. Tucking her against my side, I leaned down, whispering so only she could hear:

“You’ll get the rest of that kiss later,” I told her huskily. “In private.”

She blushed, but gave me a saucy look. “Only if you win,” she teased.

With a cheering crowd following us, we rushed back to Center Court. When the people in the stands saw Emmy at my side, the applause was deafening.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” they chanted.

I took Emmy in my arms, wondering how I could have let her walk away from me, even for a moment. And then, with the whole world watching, I kissed her.