If I could have stayed in bed all week, I would have. There was something about Emmy that made it especially hard to say goodbye—even if it was only for a few hours. I liked having her around. Liked having her nearby. Because she didn’t treat me like a prince, or a tennis star. She just treated me like Charlie. Like a normal guy. It was the headiest aphrodisiac I had ever experienced.

“See you tonight?” I asked, reluctantly showing her to the door the next morning, before my coach could start blowing up my phone.

“Only if you win,” she teased.

“I’ll win if I get my good luck kiss,” I countered.

“Last night wasn’t enough for you?” Emmy grinned, and the memory of her, naked and screaming my name, was almost enough to make me drag her right back to bed.

I settled for another kiss instead, feeling her mouth open for me, so hot and wet it made my blood turn to fire. How could someone I barely knew have such an effect on me? Whatever the reason, I wasn’t about to question it—especially if it got me kisses like that.

“See you tonight.” Emmy patted my chest, and with a swing of her hips, was gone.

* * *

Sometimes, you can tell you’re going to win before you even step on the court. Call it sportsman’s intuition, or false confidence, but whatever the reason, that day I was in the zone. The roar of the crowd faded away as I tested my racket in my hand, ready to play. It was my first time facing off against Nicholas Dresden, but I had seen him play before. He was a solid competitor with a wicked backhand. But I was ready for him. My entire body felt relaxed and ready—my racket a mere extension of my arm.

“Gentlemen, first set. Mr. Dresden to serve.”

I lost the coin toss, but somehow, it didn’t matter. As I took my position on the baseline, I realized that I wasn’t just calm, I was happy, too. I was looking forward to the match because I was looking forward to playing tennis. Not competing. Playing. I couldn’t remember the last time I had approached a match with this kind of attitude. I had become obsessed with winning, with wanting to be the best, with wanting to show the world I was more than just a spoiled prince—that I had talent, too. But today I just wanted to play. To have a good time.

Dresden served, and I returned, the dance beginning. There was nothing but the ball and my opponent—even the court and the net became blurred—Dresden and I singularly focused. He was even better than I had expected, and we were well-matched. Our styles were completely different—he was all polish and form, while I was sweat and strength—but the contrast worked. We volleyed back and forth, neither of us giving an inch. Fifteen love. Fifteen all. Thirty fifteen. Thirty all. Sweat was rolling down my temples, the sun hot in the sky above, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

I was thirty-forty up in the first game. Then I saw my opportunity. Dresden served hard and deep, and I aimed the return towards the baseline. It was a risky move—too far, and I would have gone over and awarded him the point. But my deep shot hit its target, just inside the baseline.

I took the game. The crowd went wild.

Across the net, Dresden gave me an acknowledging nod, one that I returned. It was my serve next, and I unleashed that bad boy, ball whizzing across the net, both of us chasing it all over the court. It was an exhausting and exhilarating game, but one I would have been happy to play forever. Dresden was an excellent opponent, and I could tell that even though he was losing, he was having a good time.

“Two love, Davenport.”

I took my service game, then Dresden came back to hold his serve. He chased me all the way, and I took the first set by a hair’s breadth. He rallied in the second, but I took the third set, this time 6–3.

With each shot, I learned more about him. His backhand wasn’t his only move—he was also a flatliner, hitting the ball fast and flat over the net. But it kept him in the middle of the court, making it easier for me to score when I took risks, hitting the ball near the baseline or the net. Because that was my move—embracing the risk. Embracing the danger. With each deep or drop shot, I could easily have handed the point to my opponent. Instead, I crushed him, forty-love. Set point. Match.

I jogged across the court, meeting him at the net. We were both sweating buckets, but neither of us were tired.

“Great game,” Dresden said, extending his hand over the net.

I shook it. “Let me know when you’re up for a rematch,” I told him. “You’re a worthy adversary.”

He laughed. “And you play like a madman,” he responded. “But maybe I need a little madness in my technique. Perhaps I’ll see you next year.”

“Bet on it.” I shook his hand again.

Then I was surrounded by reporters and cameras, all of them swarming the court to get comments from both of us. Garrett reached through the crowd, pulling me towards the press box, Declan joining us. I had long learned not to say anything off the cuff on court immediately after a match. That’s how sound bites were made. And usually not very good ones.

* * *

Press conferences were always more fun after winning a match. No one wanted to sit and talk about what they had done wrong or how they had disappointed themselves or their supporters. But everyone wanted to talk about themselves when they won and I was no exception.

“Charlie!” reporters shouted. “After last year’s showing, no one expected you to go this far. How does it feel to exceed expectations?”

“Bloody brilliant,” I told them. “But I didn’t get here on my own. I had an amazing coach, who’s been kicking my arse for months.”

“Anything—or anyone—else responsible for your improved game?” the question came through the crowd.

“Cheeky,” I said with a wink. “If you’re asking about Emmy, then yes. A good-luck kiss from her before each match has definitely helped my performance.”

The press laughed. I would have never described my relationship with them as a positive one, but I knew that if utilized correctly, they could help me. But I had to help them first. And apparently my relationship with Emmy had done that. They weren’t accusing me of being a spoiled royal who partied too much and played too erratically. They were treating me like a professional.

But whatever high I had received from the game and the good press conference disappeared the moment I stepped into my locker room and found Hugh waiting for me. Knowing it would bother him, I stripped off my shirt and threw it into my locker.

“Came to offer congratulations?” I asked dryly.

“Congratulations,” he responded just as flatly.

“Look at that.” I wiped the sweat off my face. “You didn’t even choke on it.”

“Whether you believe it or not, little brother, I do care about your accomplishments.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “But . . . ?”

Hugh sighed. “But I just want you to be careful.”

“Careful about what?”

“About her.”

I faced him, my hands on my hips. “If you’re talking about Emmy, use her bloody name.”

Hugh didn’t say anything for a moment, and the two of us stared each other down just like we had done since we were kids. Only this probably wasn’t going to end with one of us wrestling the other to the ground, and the other one calling for our mum. One guess as to who was usually doing which one.

“Emmy seems charming,” Hugh finally responded. “But what do we know about her?”

“We know that she’s an American working at Wimbledon for the summer before starting a career as a designer.” At least, that’s what I was hoping she was going to do. Preferably here in London.

“What about her family?” Hugh wanted to know.

I paused. I knew she had an aunt here in London, but I didn’t know which side of the family she belonged to. I didn’t know anything about Emmy’s parents.

Hugh, like the intuitive wanker that he was, sensed his advantage and pressed onward.

“What about her past?” he asked. “Do you know anything about her life in the States?”

I didn’t. But I trusted her.

“She doesn’t have any deep dark secrets,” I told him.

“No?” this time Hugh was the one raising his eyebrow.

“I asked her,” I shot back. “And I believe her.”

Hugh snorted. “You better hope not, because I can guarantee there are two dozen tabloid journalists digging through her trash right now. Calling friends, calling exes, offering them all kinds of cash to spill their guts.”

“There’s nothing to spill.” I glared at him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hugh sighed. “I never took you for naïve, Charlie. You know how these things work. All it takes is someone willing to bend the truth, and suddenly, we’ve got another scandal on our hands. You should have come to me earlier, we could have had our own people look into her and make sure there was nothing troubling lurking back home.”

“You mean investigate her,” I said flatly. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“Charlie—”

“Get out,” I told him, my good mood gone.

He left, but the doubt he had planted remained. I shook it off. If there was something to worry about, Emmy would have told me. Stripping down, I got into the shower, turning the water up to scalding, massaging my tired muscles.

But loath as I was to admit it, Hugh was right about one thing. I did need to learn more about Emmy. Not because I didn’t trust her. Because I did. And I told myself that over and over until the water went cold.