I was thinking I should maybe add a second lesson in the week.
For the briefest of moments, I feel chokingly bored by it all, but I force myself to embrace the boredom. She does an unnecessary stretch that strains her white top across fullâ definitely fakeâ breasts.
I sidestep, setting my racket and ball on the bench. A kiss that I have no intention of giving. And when ignorance is over? All hell breaks loose. Fortunately for me, most of my life I was blissfully unaware that my own mother fell into that category of straying housewives. A boredom they often ease by taking up with men other than their husbands. Growing up on the Upper East Side of New York taught me early that women of the idle rich class get bored easily. I only work the courts three days a week, and my lesson schedule is packed with women who are probably better at tennis than I am. She lets out a low laugh, running pink manicured nails down the front of my white polo. Mindy follows me to the benches, where we retrieve our rackets. Most people hit the courts in the early morning or not at all. Everything from the location to the position had been her idea. She giggles as she runs a hand over her tennis skirt, smoothing it over tanned, toned thighs. Six months since learning that my identity as Michael St. Six months since ditching Wall Street to be a country-club lackey and occasional bartender. 1 Chapter 1 : Crushed Lauren Layne NetGalley Lauren Layne's latest novel about the healing power of redemption tells the story of a crush gone wickedly wrong, proving that what you want isn't always what you need.
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