TORI'S POV
"Will you be my girlfriend?"
The words hung in the air between us. My brain short-circuited, unable to process what I'd just heard.
Ethan Harrington—tennis star, rich boy, my sworn enemy until about five minutes ago—had just asked me to be his girlfriend.
"I—what?!" I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Before I could form a coherent response, Ethan's phone rang. His eyes left mine as he checked the screen, his expression changing instantly.
"I have to take this," he said, turning away. "Hey, Dad."
I couldn't hear the full conversation, but Ethan's responses were clipped. "Yes... No... I understand... I'll be there."
By the time he hung up, his jaw was tight, his earlier vulnerability replaced by something harder.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Fine," he said shortly, starting the car. "Where am I taking you?"
I gave him my address, and we drove in complete silence. My mind raced with unanswered questions.
Had he really just asked me to be his girlfriend? Did he mean it, or was it some kind of joke? And why did I care so much?
"It's that building," I said, pointing to my apartment complex.
Ethan pulled up to the curb and put the car in park. Before I could even reach for the door handle, he was out and coming around to my side. He opened my door and offered his hand.
"I can manage," I protested weakly.
"Humor me," he said, his earlier tension softening slightly.
I took his hand, trying to ignore the warmth that spread up my arm at his touch. He helped me out and grabbed my bag, walking beside me to the entrance.
At my door, I hesitated. I should thank him and send him on his way. The last thing I needed was Ethan Harrington in my personal space.
But he stood there expectantly, and I found myself sighing and unlocking the door.
"Come on in," I said, immediately regretting the words.
He followed me inside, and I watched his eyes scan my apartment. His gaze stopped on the wall of framed photos—professional tennis players mid-swing, signed memorabilia, and a few volleyball heroes mixed in.
Then his attention shifted to my trophy shelf, where various awards from competitions over the years were displayed.
"Wow," he said, moving toward the shelf. I cursed under my breath. Why hadn't I shown him to the door?
He picked up one of the trophies, examining it. "You never told me you were a fan of tennis, Tori."
He turned to face me, his expression unreadable.
"Well, you never asked," I replied, crossing my arms defensively.
"And these awards are massive." He gestured to the collection. "They are twice of mine. You should be the one they call a superstar."
"Not you, right?" The words came out sharper than I intended.
He nodded, setting the trophy back carefully. An awkward silence fell between us. I shifted my weight, wincing slightly when I put too much pressure on my bad knee.
"You should go," I said finally, suddenly desperate to be alone.
Being near him after everything, the hospital, his question, this strange new tension was too much.
The truth was, I was attracted to him. I hated admitting it, even to myself, but there it was. But I couldn't let myself go down that road.
Tennis stars dated cheerleaders and rich girls, not volleyball players with scholarships to maintain and Olympic dreams to chase.
He stepped closer, and my breath caught in my throat. I could smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle that made my head swim.
"Take care, okay?" he said softly. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to call me."
He turned toward the door, and I exhaled a deep sigh of relief. This weird moment was almost over.
Then he stopped suddenly. "Doc said to report back to the clinic if you feel any pain." He dug into his pocket and walked back to me, holding out a small pharmacy bag. "I almost forgot to give you your medications. Please take them, okay?"
"Okay, okay," I said quickly, taking the bag, hoping he'd finally leave.
But Ethan didn't move. He stood there, looking at me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
What was he doing? Why was he still here?
Finally, he took a step forward, and I expected him to head for the door. Instead, he moved closer to me, closing the distance between us in two strides.
"Ethan, what are you—"
His lips pressed against mine, cutting off my question. The kiss was gentle but firm, his hand coming up to cup my face. Before my brain could catch up to what was happening, before I could decide whether to push him away or pull him closer, he broke the contact.
"I meant what I asked in the car," he whispered against my lips.
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me standing in my living room with my fingers pressed to my tingling lips.