your ranger-issue button-down isn’t purposely one size too small, to show off your guns.”
“Mom taught me to look stylish, even when I’m chasing bears out of campgrounds. Now, how about that answer?”
He was sharp, Ash had to give him that. “Four months,” she answered. “Every student is required to 100
have some sort of activity here at Blackwood. I can’t draw even the simplest of stick figures; I can’t act to save my life; and I write on a second-grade level, so the newspaper was out. Then one day Coach put a racket in my hand, and I discovered that I was actually good at something.
And the best part? I’m even better at it than my loser ex-boyfriend.”
“Damn, girl,” Colt said, earnestly impressed. “You had me fooled. For someone who just picked up a racket for the first time, you look like you could give Pete Sampras a run for his money.”
“I’m a long way from Wimbledon,” Ash said. “But I have a grudge match next week against this girl, Patricia Orleans, who goes to our rival school. . . . Apparently fate decided that it would somehow be politically correct and hilarious to match up the two islander girls in the Northern California prep school scene for a tennis match to the death.”
“So I take it you two are friends?” Colt asked.
“Tricia and I? Hell, no. She beat me last time,” Ash replied. “That bitch is going down.”
“I guess I don’t need to ask if you’ve got a competitive streak.”
“You want to pick up a racket and find out?” Ash pointed to the court. “I’ll even let you serve . . . if you can get the ball over the net.”
“Enticing as that invite sounds,” Colt said, “I have a feeling I’m the one who would get served in the end.”
101
Colt laughed at himself after a pause. “Wow, that didn’t sound quite so lame in my head.”
“If you’re not going to take me up on my challenge, then I guess that means you have one question left, Ranger Halliday.”
“The one thing I’m dying to know”—the smile died from his lips and settled into something serious without being solemn—“is how long am I going to have to wait until I find out what’s underneath the sarcasm and wit?
Until I get to know the real Ashline Wilde from New York?” He reached out and touched the small of her back. “Not that I don’t enjoy the banter.”
Ash shifted in her seat. She was enjoying the electricity of his fingers against her spine, but this talk of defense mechanisms unnerved her. “Maybe what you see is what you get.”
“I hope you take it as a compliment when I say, that’s the biggest crock of bullshit I’ve heard in my life.”
“Compliment half-taken,” she said. “I guess the answer to your question is, when I feel like you can handle me.” She stood up, mildly regretful to part from the sensation of his touch, longing to feel it against her bare back instead.
He stood too, his eyes ablaze with curiosity. “When do I get to see you again?”
“That would be question number four. But you seem like a resourceful guy, so I’m going to do you a favor. If you can find a way to set it up, I will be there.”
102
Colt made a throwing motion. “Rocks to your dorm room window?”
“If that’s how you throw, then you’d better hope I don’t live any higher than the first floor.” Ash punched him playfully in the arm. “See you around, Colt.”
He said nothing as she scooped up her racket and descended the bleachers, but she could sense his eyes on her, reaching out to her, drinking in her silhouette. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she lingered on the last step and looked back at him. “And by the way . . . if we had played tennis, I would have gone easy on you.”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Don’t ever go easy on me. When I win, I want to feel like I’ve really earned it. Victory tastes greater that way.”
She smirked. “We still talking about tennis?”
“Of course,” he replied
“Mom taught me to look stylish, even when I’m chasing bears out of campgrounds. Now, how about that answer?”
He was sharp, Ash had to give him that. “Four months,” she answered. “Every student is required to 100
have some sort of activity here at Blackwood. I can’t draw even the simplest of stick figures; I can’t act to save my life; and I write on a second-grade level, so the newspaper was out. Then one day Coach put a racket in my hand, and I discovered that I was actually good at something.
And the best part? I’m even better at it than my loser ex-boyfriend.”
“Damn, girl,” Colt said, earnestly impressed. “You had me fooled. For someone who just picked up a racket for the first time, you look like you could give Pete Sampras a run for his money.”
“I’m a long way from Wimbledon,” Ash said. “But I have a grudge match next week against this girl, Patricia Orleans, who goes to our rival school. . . . Apparently fate decided that it would somehow be politically correct and hilarious to match up the two islander girls in the Northern California prep school scene for a tennis match to the death.”
“So I take it you two are friends?” Colt asked.
“Tricia and I? Hell, no. She beat me last time,” Ash replied. “That bitch is going down.”
“I guess I don’t need to ask if you’ve got a competitive streak.”
“You want to pick up a racket and find out?” Ash pointed to the court. “I’ll even let you serve . . . if you can get the ball over the net.”
“Enticing as that invite sounds,” Colt said, “I have a feeling I’m the one who would get served in the end.”
101
Colt laughed at himself after a pause. “Wow, that didn’t sound quite so lame in my head.”
“If you’re not going to take me up on my challenge, then I guess that means you have one question left, Ranger Halliday.”
“The one thing I’m dying to know”—the smile died from his lips and settled into something serious without being solemn—“is how long am I going to have to wait until I find out what’s underneath the sarcasm and wit?
Until I get to know the real Ashline Wilde from New York?” He reached out and touched the small of her back. “Not that I don’t enjoy the banter.”
Ash shifted in her seat. She was enjoying the electricity of his fingers against her spine, but this talk of defense mechanisms unnerved her. “Maybe what you see is what you get.”
“I hope you take it as a compliment when I say, that’s the biggest crock of bullshit I’ve heard in my life.”
“Compliment half-taken,” she said. “I guess the answer to your question is, when I feel like you can handle me.” She stood up, mildly regretful to part from the sensation of his touch, longing to feel it against her bare back instead.
He stood too, his eyes ablaze with curiosity. “When do I get to see you again?”
“That would be question number four. But you seem like a resourceful guy, so I’m going to do you a favor. If you can find a way to set it up, I will be there.”
102
Colt made a throwing motion. “Rocks to your dorm room window?”
“If that’s how you throw, then you’d better hope I don’t live any higher than the first floor.” Ash punched him playfully in the arm. “See you around, Colt.”
He said nothing as she scooped up her racket and descended the bleachers, but she could sense his eyes on her, reaching out to her, drinking in her silhouette. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she lingered on the last step and looked back at him. “And by the way . . . if we had played tennis, I would have gone easy on you.”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Don’t ever go easy on me. When I win, I want to feel like I’ve really earned it. Victory tastes greater that way.”
She smirked. “We still talking about tennis?”
“Of course,” he replied
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