. . .
“Ughhhh.” He grunt-whipped the ball right into the net, which shook from the force.
“Yeah, Brady, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dylan banged loudly on the glass.
J.T. grabbed her arms and quickly lowered them, sneaking a quick look back at his dad. “What are you
doing
?!”
Dylan’s shoulder had flared up with fiery pain when he grabbed her. But so what? He was holding her wrists!
J.T.’s pearl-clad mother shifted in the seat behind Dylan.
“Did you see how hard he hit that?” Dylan beamed. “What a swing!”
J.T. looked confused, like he’d been suddenly roused from a deep sleep. “Brady
lost
the point.”
Uh-oh.
“I thought you were a
fan
!” Dylan tried, her mind running for an explanation.
“I am.” J.T. still looked confused.
“Then you should support him no matter what,” she whisper-hissed, rolling her eyes for added punch.
J.T. looked away for a moment, probably to consider this. Seconds later, a huge smile spread across his Twizzler-red lips. “Wow.”
Score.
Dylan had actually made him reevaluate the sport while forcing him to contemplate the true meaning of—
“Is that Svetlana?”
Dylan sucked in her abs and panic-scanned the spectators below. It wasn’t long before she spotted the blonde in her ultra-low V-neck LWTD. She was sidestepping her way across a row of bleachers, clueless to the tongues that wagged as she squeezed by. Stopping at the only empty courtside seat, she pinch-grabbed the warm-up jacket that had been intentionally left as a placeholder, released it to the ground, and sat. Once settled, she lifted the Aloha Open visor off her head and unleashed her flowing waves slow-mo style.
What happened to the braid? And the straight hair?
Svetlana looked like Dylan
before
the mind-numbing, four-hour transformation. And now it would be months before the chemicals wore off and her own curls popped back. Pure evil!
Svetlana’s eyes scanned the crowd. A devious smile cracked its way across her taut face when she located the Daly box and realized J.T. was watching her. She winked her faux lashes at him and crossed her oil-slicked legs with slow determination, as though they were underwater.
J.T. exhaled longingly, leaving a steam cloud of desire on the glass.
Opposite of acceptable! Svetlana was ah-bviously doing this to mess with Dylan. Well, a quick shake of her LG should put a stop to that. And it did. Svetlana’s shoulders dropped slightly. She put her visor back on, coyly lowered it over her blue-green eyes, and focused on the match.
Seconds later, the cheering crowd tipped Dylan off to a successful swing by Brady. “That was some backhandler!” she shouted.
J.T. whipped around to face her.
Direct eye contact. Finally!
She had his full attention now.
“Are you even watching the same match as I am?” His brow furrowed.
Nervous heat starting pricking under her pits, and Dylan hoped desperately that her freesia-scented deodorant would keep the crisis in check.
“Of course I’m watching the same match. Now
shhhh
!” she chided him, desperate to change the topic.
“You do know there’s no such thing as a backhandler, right? It’s called a
backhand
.”
Outside, polite applause followed a loud tennis-grunt.
“I
know
. That’s just our nickname for them back at the Westchester Tennis Club.”
J.T. crossed his arms. “You
look
like you’re really into tennis, but it seems like you don’t actually know anything about it. I mean—”
Dylan forced herself to face his disapproving eyes. “I’ll show you how into tennis I am when Svetlana and I play later this week.”
J.T. gasped. “Are you serious?”
“If by serious you mean
stupid,
then ah-bso-lutely,” Dylan wanted to say.
But instead she sigh-nodded yes
and smiled awkwardly, the way love-struck girls often do.
KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
SVETLANA’S BUNGALOW
Thursday, July 2
4 P.M.
“This will only take a sec.” Dylan pushed past Svetlana and charged into the
“Ughhhh.” He grunt-whipped the ball right into the net, which shook from the force.
“Yeah, Brady, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dylan banged loudly on the glass.
J.T. grabbed her arms and quickly lowered them, sneaking a quick look back at his dad. “What are you
doing
?!”
Dylan’s shoulder had flared up with fiery pain when he grabbed her. But so what? He was holding her wrists!
J.T.’s pearl-clad mother shifted in the seat behind Dylan.
“Did you see how hard he hit that?” Dylan beamed. “What a swing!”
J.T. looked confused, like he’d been suddenly roused from a deep sleep. “Brady
lost
the point.”
Uh-oh.
“I thought you were a
fan
!” Dylan tried, her mind running for an explanation.
“I am.” J.T. still looked confused.
“Then you should support him no matter what,” she whisper-hissed, rolling her eyes for added punch.
J.T. looked away for a moment, probably to consider this. Seconds later, a huge smile spread across his Twizzler-red lips. “Wow.”
Score.
Dylan had actually made him reevaluate the sport while forcing him to contemplate the true meaning of—
“Is that Svetlana?”
Dylan sucked in her abs and panic-scanned the spectators below. It wasn’t long before she spotted the blonde in her ultra-low V-neck LWTD. She was sidestepping her way across a row of bleachers, clueless to the tongues that wagged as she squeezed by. Stopping at the only empty courtside seat, she pinch-grabbed the warm-up jacket that had been intentionally left as a placeholder, released it to the ground, and sat. Once settled, she lifted the Aloha Open visor off her head and unleashed her flowing waves slow-mo style.
What happened to the braid? And the straight hair?
Svetlana looked like Dylan
before
the mind-numbing, four-hour transformation. And now it would be months before the chemicals wore off and her own curls popped back. Pure evil!
Svetlana’s eyes scanned the crowd. A devious smile cracked its way across her taut face when she located the Daly box and realized J.T. was watching her. She winked her faux lashes at him and crossed her oil-slicked legs with slow determination, as though they were underwater.
J.T. exhaled longingly, leaving a steam cloud of desire on the glass.
Opposite of acceptable! Svetlana was ah-bviously doing this to mess with Dylan. Well, a quick shake of her LG should put a stop to that. And it did. Svetlana’s shoulders dropped slightly. She put her visor back on, coyly lowered it over her blue-green eyes, and focused on the match.
Seconds later, the cheering crowd tipped Dylan off to a successful swing by Brady. “That was some backhandler!” she shouted.
J.T. whipped around to face her.
Direct eye contact. Finally!
She had his full attention now.
“Are you even watching the same match as I am?” His brow furrowed.
Nervous heat starting pricking under her pits, and Dylan hoped desperately that her freesia-scented deodorant would keep the crisis in check.
“Of course I’m watching the same match. Now
shhhh
!” she chided him, desperate to change the topic.
“You do know there’s no such thing as a backhandler, right? It’s called a
backhand
.”
Outside, polite applause followed a loud tennis-grunt.
“I
know
. That’s just our nickname for them back at the Westchester Tennis Club.”
J.T. crossed his arms. “You
look
like you’re really into tennis, but it seems like you don’t actually know anything about it. I mean—”
Dylan forced herself to face his disapproving eyes. “I’ll show you how into tennis I am when Svetlana and I play later this week.”
J.T. gasped. “Are you serious?”
“If by serious you mean
stupid,
then ah-bso-lutely,” Dylan wanted to say.
But instead she sigh-nodded yes
and smiled awkwardly, the way love-struck girls often do.
KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
SVETLANA’S BUNGALOW
Thursday, July 2
4 P.M.
“This will only take a sec.” Dylan pushed past Svetlana and charged into the
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