“Up here. Three?” I ask, opening the cabinet where I know they’re stashed.
“Yep.” I set them on the counter beside me and Whimsy struggles to carry everything. “I can help you carry some things.”
“That would be great. Thanks, Fisher.” She smiles and leaves me with two of the glasses while she handles one and the wine bottle.
My heart races as we get closer to the back porch. It’s downright embarrassing how easily I’m affected by Ebba. You’d think after years of mild exposure to her I would be immune, but I’m just as a susceptible to her as I was the first time I ever saw her.
I should probably still be embarrassed at how easy it is to recall the memory.
It was at the Australian Open in the hotel lobby. I was waiting for Noah on one of the long couches near the doors. My whole body sensed her before I saw her, and when I did lay my eyes on her I knew she was the most stunning woman I had ever,or would ever, see. She headed toward the hotel’s café and I followed her, tossing my own coffee I’d bought only minutes ago all so I could have an excuse to be close to her.
I stepped into line behind her. Her sweet and musky perfume filling the air around her. As soon as she gave her order, I said, “I’ve got it.”
She turned around and gave me a dirty look. “I can pay for my own coffee,” she said in a slightly offended tone.
“I have no doubt,” I replied. “But a woman as pretty as you shouldn’t have to.”
It was absolutely the cheesiest line to ever leave my mouth and she burst out laughing—rightfully so. But I didn’t care, because even if she was laughingatme, I loved the sound and I was happy that I’d amused her. I tacked on another coffee for myself and paid, stepping aside to join her with the others waiting.
“I’m Fisher.”
“Ebba.” She smiled up at me. She was on the taller side for a woman, at least five-foot eight or nine.
“Ebba?” I repeated. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“It’s a Swedish name,” she replied.
“So, you’re Swedish?” I asked.
“Half on my mom’s side.”
“That’s cool.”
She laughed softly. “I take it you don’t do this much?”
“Do what?” I asked dumbly.
“Buy girls coffee? Try to flirt with them?”
I blushed. No, I didn’t. I’d been so focused on tennis for so long that women and relationships had been a non-existent thought. “No, I don’t,” I admitted. I didn’t see the point in lying and trying to act like some sort of player.
“Thanks for getting it, but you really didn’t have to.”
“You’re welcome.” I rubbed the back of my head. “Can I give you my number? That way the ball’s in your court? No pressure?”
She smiles and pulls out her phone, passing it to me. “You can add it in.”
I quickly added my contact information and passed her phone back to her.
“Hey, there you are.” I turned at the familiar voice, finding Elias Johnson heading our way. I bristled. He was another American player, but I hadn’t run into him much. I knew enough about him through the rumor mill to know he’s a bit of a womanizer.
“Sorry, I wanted to grab a coffee before we go,” Ebba said to him with a smile.
Confusion floods me and my stomach sinks with a heavy thud. “Are you two…?” I trailed off, swinging my finger between them.
Ebba’s brows furrowed. “Huh? Oh!” Laughter rumbled out of her, and she shook her head. “Elias is my twin brother.”
Realization crashed over me. I’d heard about his twin sister, a dancer in New York City who was recently injured.