“Here,” Cash said, tossing a room service menu at Natalia. “You pick.”

As Natalia rang room service to order their breakfast, Cash drifted over to the window. He flexed his right hand. His joints were stiff. Liam had warned him this might happen. Hours on the practice court followed by four matches on the bounce—it wasn’t too surprising his hand felt sore. At least he’d made the final, albeit at a small tournament. But it was a start.

“You can’t hide it from me.”

Cash glanced down when Natalia laid a hand on his back. His face twisted in a grimace, and he shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“Come with me,” she said, leading him over to the sofa. She urged him to sit. Reaching behind her, she picked up a brown bottle and unscrewed the lid before pouring what looked like olive oil into her hands.

“What’s that?”

“Massage oil. Give,” she said, holding her hand out, palm up.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, placing his right hand in hers.

“I know.” She began to rub his joints, one at a time, and gradually, the stiffness receded. “I’ve always loved your hands,” she said with a shy smile as she removed the excess oil with a damp cloth.

“I love them when they’re exploring your body,” he said, drawing a laugh from her.

“You have a one-track mind.”

He tugged on her arm, and she fell into his lap. He drew her mouth towards his, her lips warm, soft, and achingly familiar. Cash groaned when a knock at the door interrupted his intentions.

“I’ll get it,” she said, clambering off his lap.

“Perfect fucking timing,” he muttered, glowering at the waiter as he placed their breakfast on the dining table. He’d never stayed at this hotel before, and if they were going to be that fucking efficient with room service, he wouldn’t be staying again.

Natalia saw the waiter out and sat at the table. She dug her fork into a pile of scrambled eggs and made a contented sound.

“Have you decided whether you’re playing Madrid or Rome yet?” she said, reaching for the salt.

Cash cut into his omelette. “I’m not playing either.”

Her mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “Why?”

“It’s too soon.”

“Mentally, or physically?”

Cash met her gaze. “Both. I need a couple more two-fifties under my belt and maybe one or two five hundreds before I tackle the masters.”

“So Geneva, then, in a fortnight? Or would you prefer Lyon?”

He shrugged. “I don’t suppose it matters.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He captured her hand, the feel of her skin comforting him. “You’ll be back at work by then. You’ve only got another week off, and I hate the thought of doing this without you.”

Natalia sighed as realisation dimmed the earlier sparkle in her eyes. She dropped her fork with a clang. “This isn’t going to work, is it?”

Panic swarmed his insides. Oh God, she’d changed her mind about them getting back together. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to have to resign from work.”

Even as relief coursed through him, Cash shook his head. “But you love your job.”

She rose from her chair and nestled into his lap, her hands curving around the back of his head. “I love you more.”

His heart squeezed as he brushed his lips over hers. “I don’t want you to feel you have no other choice.”

She shrugged. “I’ll be starting maternity leave soon. All I’m doing is bringing that forward by a few weeks. And after the baby’s born, I want to take some time off anyway.”

Hope blossomed in his chest. “And you won’t be leaving Pete in a hole?”

She gave him a tight smile. “I hope not. I’ve messed him about so much already that I can’t help feeling bad. In a way, this will be better because at least he’ll know where he stands and can get a permanent replacement.”

“When will you tell him?”

Her mouth twisted in thought. “Well, if you’re not playing anywhere next week, I’ll fly back and tell him then.”

He kissed her. “We’ll do it together.”

* * *

As they crossed the hotel reception, Cash stopped to sign a couple of autographs and pose for selfies with some fans. Natalia melted into the background. She was so good at giving him the space to play the part he needed to play. There was a lot of interest in him since his return to the tour, but both his fans and even the press had been considerate of his privacy.

He signed the final autograph on the peak of a baseball cap and looked around for Natalia. He spotted her sitting in one of the many chairs dotting the lobby. She was leaning forward, elbows on her knees, and seemed to be in conversation with the woman sitting opposite. The woman had her back to Cash, but there was something vaguely familiar about her posture.

Cash set off towards them, but as he got closer, Natalia leaped to her feet. Her face flushed, and she said something to her companion, who immediately stood and began walking away. Natalia crossed over to him and linked her arm through his.

“Ready, ace?” she said, not quite meeting his gaze.

“Who were you talking to?”

“No one of consequence.” Her face turned even more red. “Come on, you don’t want to be late.”

Skin prickling at a possibility he didn’t want to acknowledge, he shook her off and began following the woman.

“Cash, don’t.” Natalia’s pleading voice behind him added weight to his theory.

He broke into a jog as the woman stepped into the lift. The doors began to close, but he managed to stick an arm through the gap, and they sprang back open. Cash’s hands clenched into fists, his spine rigid with fury.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”