bungalow, wearing nothing but a towel. Her red braid had been tightly pinned to the top of her head and was pulling her raw scalp rawer.
“Count to three.” Simca hoisted up Dylan’s injured arm.
“Wait, why?” Dylan lifted her head, but Simca shoved it back down.
“Count!”
Dylan whimpered, “One . . . two . . .”
Crack!
“OWWWWWW,” she wailed.
She buried her sweaty face in the plush towel below her face and tried to catch her breath, shoulder throbbing and heart aching.
KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
ALOHA OPEN VIP BOX
Thursday, July 2
10 A.M.
J.T. punched his fist in the air. “Another ace!”
Everyone in the Dalys’ box set down their mimosas and applauded while Dylan sighed and checked her LG.
Time: 10 a.m.
Google Maps location: Hell.
She and J.T. were pressed up against the window in his family’s luxury box, surrounded by John Senior’s white-wearing cronies. To the fans below they must have looked like a cluster of cotton balls jammed inside one of those glass jars.
Not the most romantic setting or the best-dressed crowd or the coolest first-date activity, but definitely the cutest guy.
Definitely.
Dylan’s gloss was thick and reflective, and her long, super-straight red hair had been tightly side-braided thanks to Ingrid. She’d chosen a belted T-shirt slouch dress in bright ivory—a subtle attempt to stand out, not stick out. She’d even stuck crème brûlée–scented sneaker packs in her Forty-Loves so a waft of vanilla would follow her wherever she happened to tread.
But for some reason, J.T. was Brady-drooling much more than he was Dylan-drooling, which made posing as a psyched-to-be-here spectator extremely difficult.
This was even more boring than the Briarwood soccer games. At least there, the Pretty Committee would kill time gossiping and game-crushing on the players. But here, she and J.T. weren’t even allowed to whisper. Aloha rules insisted on absolute silence while the ball was in play. And thanks to Brady’s “Mach ten serve and slammin’ forehand” (J.T.’s terms, nawt Dylan’s), that ball was
always
in play.
Shifting in her Forty-Loves (and emitting a pouf of vanilla), Dylan decided to use the silence rule to her advantage. She leaned in close to J.T., inhaled, and seductively whispered, “Is that Dior Homme?”
“No, pomegranateproteinsmoothie,” he speed-whispered back, his eyes fixed on Brady as he raced to return Karl Sveningson’s powerful serve. “Ourboxattendantwillgetyouoneifyouwant.”
“Um, no, that’s okay. I’m good.” Dylan sighed and took a sip of her Perrier.
“Yessss!” J.T. happy-hissed, looking down at the court. “Beautiful!”
Dylan tried to imagine he was talking about her, but couldn’t manage to convince herself. Even her fantasies knew better.
Regrouping, she moved on to tactic number two. Petting her snake-braid, she lifted her elbow so that it grazed the side of his sweat-wicking Nike crewneck. The contact sent crush-shivers down her self-tanned arm and a shock of pain through her tender shoulder. Still, J.T. did not look away from the match. Maybe his shirt wicked away flirtatious advances as well.
Finally, Dylan tried to watch the game with the focus of a true die-hard. It would have helped if Svetlana had loaded her up with some in-the-know phrases, but Dylan wasn’t afraid to improvise. The more she watched Brady pivot his way around the clay, the more she understood the reasons behind J.T.’s athlete crush.
Brady’s curly black hair was tied in a mini-ponytail—an
ah-dorably
rebellious move for someone in such a J. Crew–-cut-loving profession—and his deep tan and sweat-slicked muscles gleamed like a patent leather Coach handbag. According to Merri-Lee’s info, he’d landed the Prince endorsement, a three-episode run on
The Young and the Restless,
and had been making the rounds of the talk-show circuit. But still, he was no Zac Efron. More like Adam Brody with a body. Which was far from a bad thing
“Count to three.” Simca hoisted up Dylan’s injured arm.
“Wait, why?” Dylan lifted her head, but Simca shoved it back down.
“Count!”
Dylan whimpered, “One . . . two . . .”
Crack!
“OWWWWWW,” she wailed.
She buried her sweaty face in the plush towel below her face and tried to catch her breath, shoulder throbbing and heart aching.
KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
ALOHA OPEN VIP BOX
Thursday, July 2
10 A.M.
J.T. punched his fist in the air. “Another ace!”
Everyone in the Dalys’ box set down their mimosas and applauded while Dylan sighed and checked her LG.
Time: 10 a.m.
Google Maps location: Hell.
She and J.T. were pressed up against the window in his family’s luxury box, surrounded by John Senior’s white-wearing cronies. To the fans below they must have looked like a cluster of cotton balls jammed inside one of those glass jars.
Not the most romantic setting or the best-dressed crowd or the coolest first-date activity, but definitely the cutest guy.
Definitely.
Dylan’s gloss was thick and reflective, and her long, super-straight red hair had been tightly side-braided thanks to Ingrid. She’d chosen a belted T-shirt slouch dress in bright ivory—a subtle attempt to stand out, not stick out. She’d even stuck crème brûlée–scented sneaker packs in her Forty-Loves so a waft of vanilla would follow her wherever she happened to tread.
But for some reason, J.T. was Brady-drooling much more than he was Dylan-drooling, which made posing as a psyched-to-be-here spectator extremely difficult.
This was even more boring than the Briarwood soccer games. At least there, the Pretty Committee would kill time gossiping and game-crushing on the players. But here, she and J.T. weren’t even allowed to whisper. Aloha rules insisted on absolute silence while the ball was in play. And thanks to Brady’s “Mach ten serve and slammin’ forehand” (J.T.’s terms, nawt Dylan’s), that ball was
always
in play.
Shifting in her Forty-Loves (and emitting a pouf of vanilla), Dylan decided to use the silence rule to her advantage. She leaned in close to J.T., inhaled, and seductively whispered, “Is that Dior Homme?”
“No, pomegranateproteinsmoothie,” he speed-whispered back, his eyes fixed on Brady as he raced to return Karl Sveningson’s powerful serve. “Ourboxattendantwillgetyouoneifyouwant.”
“Um, no, that’s okay. I’m good.” Dylan sighed and took a sip of her Perrier.
“Yessss!” J.T. happy-hissed, looking down at the court. “Beautiful!”
Dylan tried to imagine he was talking about her, but couldn’t manage to convince herself. Even her fantasies knew better.
Regrouping, she moved on to tactic number two. Petting her snake-braid, she lifted her elbow so that it grazed the side of his sweat-wicking Nike crewneck. The contact sent crush-shivers down her self-tanned arm and a shock of pain through her tender shoulder. Still, J.T. did not look away from the match. Maybe his shirt wicked away flirtatious advances as well.
Finally, Dylan tried to watch the game with the focus of a true die-hard. It would have helped if Svetlana had loaded her up with some in-the-know phrases, but Dylan wasn’t afraid to improvise. The more she watched Brady pivot his way around the clay, the more she understood the reasons behind J.T.’s athlete crush.
Brady’s curly black hair was tied in a mini-ponytail—an
ah-dorably
rebellious move for someone in such a J. Crew–-cut-loving profession—and his deep tan and sweat-slicked muscles gleamed like a patent leather Coach handbag. According to Merri-Lee’s info, he’d landed the Prince endorsement, a three-episode run on
The Young and the Restless,
and had been making the rounds of the talk-show circuit. But still, he was no Zac Efron. More like Adam Brody with a body. Which was far from a bad thing
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