Dirtiest Lie by Cleo Peitsche Read Free Book Online Page A

point, he smacks at my toes with his racket.
    “I know where my feet are,” I say, and he swats my ass with his racket. It’s a friendly gesture, but my butt is already sore, and I yelp.
    A retirement-aged man playing on a neighboring court glances our way.
    “I’m surprised you don’t have tennis courts at home,” I say to Hawthorne.
    “Of course I do,” he says. “But it’s too much of a drive for the middle of a workday just to do drills with a machine. Do you want to try something for me?” He takes away my racket, then shadows my body with his. “Try this…”
    Using my left hand, he mimes tossing the ball into the air. His fingers are curled around my empty right fist as he brings my arm up.
    “Lean back a little more,” he says into my ear. “You’ve got solid technique—”
    “I haven’t played in years,” I say irritably.
    “Obviously. And you’re very good. However, I’ve been watching you closely, and your axis of rotation could be adjusted. You’re compensating by choking the racket, adding unnecessary tension.”
    “My axis of rotation is fine.” It’s not something the coach, or my mother, would have overlooked.
    “Maybe it was fine,” he says patiently as he brings his body closer against mine. “But I’m guessing you haven’t played much since you finished puberty.”
    “There wasn’t much time for it,” I admit grudgingly.
    “Ok,” he says softly, and I swear I melt. In that instant, it all gets jumbled in my mind. Hawthorne, my desire for stability…
    For the first time ever, Hawthorne slips easily into my fantasies. Slade was always the one I wanted to run away with. Romeo would have been more than acceptable, but I knew he was too responsible, that he’d never leave his work behind.
    Hawthorne was never really on the list, even if we had our moments. Too rigid. Too demanding. Yes, he took care of me, but I knew I’d always feel self-conscious around him.
    And that’s certainly still true, but at this moment, as he moves my arm through the air, an imaginary racket pounding an invisible tennis ball, the sun warm on us, I realize that he has more to offer than I ever imagined. I may not always appreciate his methods, but his intentions are solid.
    My eyes drift closed, and I let myself get lost in the feel of his body, his warm, masculine scent.
    Hawthorne Tarraget.
    “Sometimes I like to add ‘the eighth’ to the end of your name,” I murmur. “Hawthorne Tarraget VIII.”
    “As I’m well aware,” he says in a no-nonsense tone. “Pay attention. Your upper body is where it should be, but now you’re not loading your back leg properly.”
    “Hi, Hawthorne,” a female voice says from behind us. My eyes fly open, and I feel myself blushing as Hawthorne turns. The moment our bodies separate, I miss him; even though the temperature is perfect, it’s like a cloud has moved across the sun, and I feel colder now that he’s not touching me.
    Rather than turn—I don’t want Hawthorne to see my face and guess at what I’m feeling—I glance over at Slade, who is staring past me.
    The slightly horrified expression on his handsome, aristocratic face is enough to make me not want to turn around.
    But I have to, especially because Hawthorne is now talking to someone.
    At first I can’t see her because his broad-shouldered body is in the way. Intentional? I don’t know.
    But then she leans to the side, and I find myself looking at one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
    She’s got the small chin and large, wide eyes of a fashion doll. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is either natural or she’s found the best colorist on the planet—one who also lightens her eyebrows and tints her lashes.
    Her eyes are an amber shade of brown. Sensual. Sexy. Innocent. All at the same time.
    The clothes she’s wearing are similar to mine, but hers are custom made. Because of the short skirt, I’ve got a nice view of her bronzed legs. I’m sure it’s a fake tan—she