“I didn’t stick my tongue in your mouth.”

“There was definitely tongue. I remember tongue.”

“I’m sure you’ve been recounting every detail so you’re probably right. I barely recall.”

Her fair cheeks are rosy now. Partially from playing tennis, but they darken when I tease her about the kiss. They’re the same color they were when I kissed her goodbye in my mother’s office on Monday. I’m teasing her about it, but I’d be lying if I said that kiss hasn’t been on my mind all week. It had surprised me how perfectly her lips felt against mine. How sweet she tasted. Now, I can’t stare at her lips without triggering the memory.

She narrows her gaze at me, then yanks the bottle out of my hands to take a drink.

She lifts the bottle to her lips. I watch a bead of sweat roll along her collar bone, then down between her breasts.

“It’s like a million degrees up here.” She fans her face.

That just made it warmer, I think.

“I want to try to return the serve,” Chloe says, determined. She seems to be getting into the game.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea with your wrist injury?” I ask.

Chloe pinches her lips together, annoyed. I’m annoyed, too, that I can’t stop staring at her mouth.

“Yes. It’s not like she’s Serena Williams. I’m tired of bouncing over here while you play most of the returns.”

“I’m tired of you bouncing over there, too.” The sight of Chloe’s perky ass in that tiny tennis skirt is going to haunt my dreams.

I relent, and switch Chloe’s position while Frankie gets ready to serve.

The ball flies over the net, Chloe attacks it like I showed her and returns it. Frankie is startled at first but manages to return it back to Chloe. Chloe reaches for the ball before it goes out of bounds and returns it. Chloe is excitedly jumping up and down, and it occurs to me that she doesn’t realize that the play is still going.

“I did it!” She jumps with enthusiasm. Fred returns the ball and still in celebration mode, with little to no reaction time, it smacks Chloe in the forehead.

I watch helplessly as her body falls backwards, and her racket rattles on the ground next to her.

Shit.

“Chloe?” I drop to the ground to examine her. A moment later, her eyelashes flutter and her eyes open.

“Did we win?” she asks, her eyes searching my face with a dazed expression.

Gently, I brush the loose hairs that have escaped from her ponytail to the side so I can get a better look. There’s a red mark, the size of the ball, that is growing in height before my eyes.

“The award for largest goose egg on your head? Yes,” I say.