Page 16 of A Summer of Stars

“If I wanted to say something, Aldridge, I’d say it.”

“Oh, I know. We all know how much you love to talk.”

“First, I don’t answer enough questions, now I talk too much. What would you prefer me to do? Walk across this court and lay one on you so we can be done with this?”

“The idea of having to be that close to you is absolutely—”

“Ravishing?”

“Deplorable. Do you want me to explain what that means?”

“Only if I’m allowed to use it as a greeting every time you walk into a room.”

“Your ability to flirt is—”

“Deplorable?” I guessed. “If I wanted to hit on you, I’d let you come over here, tell me how to serve, and then watch you hit that ball at ninety miles an hour since the only thing you’re attracted to is winning.”

Her brows furrowed at the center. “I’m not obsessed with winning. And even if I was, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be the best.”

“Well, your opponent hasn’t played since he was in his teens, so I’m not sure this is fair.”

She put her hand on her hip. “I’m obviously not going to serve at ninety miles an hour. That’d be a waste of energy.”

“Wouldn’t you do this in practice?”

“Yes, but my coach can actually hit the ball back.” She smiled.

“Your attitude is deplorable. Let’s play.”

I wasn’t capable of measuring speed, but that ball looked like it was coming toward me at ninety miles an hour.

After thirty minutes, I received an unexpected tennis lesson—if you could call Aldridge yelling at me about my feet “teaching”—and had begun hitting the balls straight over the fence behind her.The first two times, she was slightly impressed. But by the third, she was catching on.

“That was our last ball,” she mumbled after the eighth.

“Guess we’ll have to get going.” I crossed the court, but she cut me off at a concerning speed, latching onto my arm.

“We have a deal.”

I glanced down at her hand. “I know that, but do you?”

She let go. “Fine. I’ll go get them.”

“You’ll go get what—? Oh my God.” Disbelief left my mouth in the form of a laugh. She approached the fence behind the court. A fence that separated us from someone’s house. “Aldridge, what are you doing?”

“Getting your balls!” She shoved her sneaker into a crook of the wire fence. She was halfway up before the structure began to wobble from her calculated movements. It was an interesting image. When I dated Penelope, she was a fragile thing—her words. She spoke of women like they were vases. Delicate and poised. Made to be admired. Luna Aldridge seemed to be made for herself.

She wasn’t short, but she also wasn’t tall enough for this.

“All right, get down now.”

Instead of descending, she said, “The sound of your voice is bothersome enough to wake the dead.”

“Enough of this.” I stopped her, grabbing on to her hips and pulling her down.

“I was perfectly—”

“Capable, yes, I get it. I’m fully aware of your athleticism, and so are the photographers after a half hour of watching you pelt balls at me.”