Page 78 of A Summer of Stars

“She did?”

“She did,” he confirmed. His blue eyes searched my face. “She also said you’re incredibly talented.”

My heart melted into a sentimental puddle. “She said that?”

“Well, I added theincrediblypart,” he said, the corner of his lips pulling into a small smile. Then, it fell. “You are incredibly talented, Luna. And beautiful… very beautiful.”

All of the air in my throat was snatched from its place as he searched my face. It warmed me from the inside out, like a gas lamp flickering beneath my fingertips. His Adam’s apple bobbed again, and suddenly, I had this overwhelming urge to kiss where it resided.

A confusing ache formed in the center of my chest, fighting me to move closer and lean forward with intention, to hover my lips over his and divulge in a whisper all of the perplexing dreams I had to sleep with since our kiss. That I dreamed about his hand traveling further, his lips staying longer, and his voice breathing my name in a prayer.

He cleared his throat, standing up. Just like that, I was left feeling whiplash.

He stacked our dishes, and asked, “How are you feeling?” Before I could answer, he was leaning forward to press his hand againstmy forehead. “You already feel cooler, that’s a good sign.” He pulled away quickly and picked up our plates, leaving them by the door.

“Yeah, I feel better.” I tried to respond without my voice squeaking like an overused rocking chair.

“And you’re still going to play?” he asked, disappearing into the bathroom.

“I am. I have to.”

“Why do you have to?” He returned, a folded-up face cloth in his hand. “Keep this against your forehead,” he ordered, pressing the damp material to my skin.

“I… I don’t have to. I love my job, I love tennis. But lately, there’s been this extra pressure to be good and prove people wrong. I can’t miss a match.”

“And Wimbledon was your only chance?” he asked, sitting down.

I unfolded the cloth across my face. “It sounds stupid when you say it out loud,” I groaned.

“No, it doesn’t,” he reassured me. “But I do think you’re focusing too much on what everyone else thinks. You’re too talented to be doing this for anyone else but yourself. What doyouthink?”

“That I’m a failure,” I mumbled under the material. There was a shuffling of the couch cushion. Then he was lifting the face cloth up, letting a stream of light in. His face was so close now. Too close for me to think.

“You’re not a failure. You’re an eleven-time Grand Slam–winning tennis player,” he whispered. It was the hottest thing I had ever heard a man say.

“Did you google me?”

“Maybe.” I could anticipate his annoyingly handsome smirk—the one where he bit down on the inside of his lip to hold backfrom saying somethingKieran-like. “Only fair since I know you’ve watched my movies,” he said.

I pulled the face cloth off and threw it at his chest. He laughed, sitting down beside me. A moment of silence passed before he quietly said, “Whatever you want, Luna, you can have. You could probably turn the green summer leaves an autumnal brown simply by asking them to. Don’t doubt your abilities.”

I felt his words in my chest. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“Tell me about when you first started playing tennis,” he requested.

Instead of questioning his curiosity, I welcomed it, too tired to poke and prod.

I rested my head against the armrest and let the cloth lie on my forehead. I recalled summers in Rhode Island where my racket was practically glued to my hand. I told him about the days my mother would walk down to the court with a pitcher of iced tea to watch me play until she was bribing me with dinner to return home. On Friday nights, after practice, I’d run straight to the beach down the street, diving into the ocean.

I told him about the first championship I won and the first I lost. I described the ache that burrowed itself in your ankles and wrists when you were first learning. And the satisfying nugget that hit you smack in the middle of your chest when you struck the balljustthe right way.

I watched the lampposts outside fall asleep as I spoke, Kieran listening the entire time. The subtle street music of travelers’ steps on the cobblestones and chatter bouncing off the buildings soon diminished. My shoulders began to slump into a perfect slumber, and my words became a whisper even I couldn’t understand. I dreamed of strong arms lifting me from warm sand, with the rumble of a chest whispering prayers to a midnight moon.

“Is Luna Aldridge’s Newest Relationship a PR Stunt?”

—Star Reporter

I TOSSED THEball in the air, and once it made contact with my racket, it flew. It was always the most mind-numbing, longest second of the match.