If I felt overwhelmed by Barrett a moment ago, that’s nothing compared to the sensory overload that Frankie provides. From her perfume to her jewelry and makeup. It doesn’t matter that Frankie is in the requisite white skirt and tennis tank, the rest of her drowns out the boring tennis outfit.

Her fuchsia nails graze my back when she pulls me into a hug.

“Barrett.” She kisses him on the cheek. “Fred is in the men’s locker room getting changed.”

Barrett nods. “Chloe needs to get outfitted.”

“Didn’t realize we were playing today so I left my stuff at home,” I say.

Alana from the front desk appears. “Miss Anderson, sorry to interrupt, here is your guest key card,” she says cheerfully, handing me the plastic card. “Welcome to the NYC Racquet Club.”

Barrett clears his throat. He does that a lot around me. I’ve yet to decipher if he’s annoyed or amused.

“Ha ha, thanks, Alana.” I take the card and Alana floats away. “She’s funny. I forgot my card.” I motion to the card in my hands. “Isn’t she nice?”

Frankie smiles, oblivious to the fact that Alana is treating me like a new guest when I’ve supposedly been here many times.

“I’ll help Chloe pick out clothes and meet you out there.”

Frankie grabs my hand and pulls me into the pro shop. I follow along like a good fake girlfriend would and do my best to forget about Barrett’s lips.

9. Barrett

CHAPTER 9

Barrett

A court attendant is feeding balls into the machine for Fred and me to warm up. Fred’s agility is impressive for a middle-aged, overweight man.

“Nice backhand,” I comment as we switch positions and I get ready to receive the next ball.

“I’ve been playing tennis every day,” Fred says. “It’s what keeps me fit. Frankie thinks I’ve recently lost weight.”

He pats his thick mid-section and I struggle to come up with a response that isn’t a bold-faced lie.

I didn’t like the way Chloe looked at me downstairs when she learned I would be lying to Fred and Frankie. Yes, sometimes I manipulate the truth in my business dealings. There is a gray area where the truth is not always necessary. Things that aren’t important, like whether my fake girlfriend is good at tennis or not.

“That’s great.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Fred nods to the corner where I returned the ball on the line. “Your father was a great player as well.”

“I learned from the best,” I say, disregarding the nostalgia that Fred’s mention of my father causes. It was a lifetime ago that he was across the court from me.