looked like it might serve food to two hungry tennis players, when the commercial frontages on their right opened up to wrought iron railings, showing a park beyond.
“You want to cut through?” The green of the grass and shrubbery looked more inviting than the traffic and the hard sidewalk.
“Sure,” Josh said agreeably, and they meandered over the short-mown grass, past flower beds and statues and fountains. France obviously did public parks in style.
Ryan bumped Josh’s shoulder to get his attention and stopped, his interest drawn by something to their left. “You see what I see?”
“Ryan, you’ve just spent all fucking day on one of those things.”
Ryan blinked. There’d been real hostility in Josh’s voice as he’d stared at the public tennis court. He shrugged, half in apology and half because he wasn’t sure how to respond. “It just takes me back to when I was a kid,” he said. “Every Saturday and Sunday, Paul and I would get to the park as early in the morning as we could, before the grownups got there, so we could play without getting thrown off.”
“Is Paul your brother?”
“My best friend, until his family moved away when we were nine.”
“Is he a tennis player too?”
Ryan snorted, and then he couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed until he had tears in his eyes. “Dear God, no ,”he gasped out at last. “Any day he managed to get a ball back across the net was a red-letter day. Hand-eye coordination was not his bag, which is kind of a worry now that I think about the fact he’s a bariatric surgeon.”
There was a slight frown on Josh’s face. “If he sucked, why did you play with him? Why did he want to play?”
“Because it was fun,” Ryan said, as if it was self-evident. Which it was.
Josh turned and looked at him, looking even more puzzled as he shoved his hands in the front pockets of his pants, and Ryan refused to think about the way that must be pulling the silky gray material taut across his ass. “If you were one of those people who played for fun, how come you got as good as you are?”
Josh thought he was good? Ryan preened internally for an instant before remembering Josh was waiting for an answer. “One of the guys we beat to the court used to let me play him sometimes, and he must have seen something in me because he suggested I join a club and get lessons. I begged my mom and dad until they gave in just to shut me up. Paul took up playing the trumpet instead, and here I am.”
“And here you are,” Josh murmured and started walking again.
“So how did you start playing?” Ryan asked, matching his stride to Josh’s. “I guess with your dad it was kind of inevitable.”
“I don’t remember not playing,” Josh said. “It’s just something I did, like learning to walk.”
“How old were you when you first remember playing?”
Josh shrugged. “Dunno. I won my first tournament when I was five.”
Ryan’s mouth hung open for a minute before he remembered just how unflattering a look Elena said that was on him. “Are you serious? My grandma and grandpa bought me one of those kids’ sets, which was what gave me the bug, but that was for my sixth birthday. It took me most of the next year to figure out which way round to hold the racket.”
Josh’s lips twisted. “That’s what you get for being the son of a frustrated pro sportsman, I guess,” he said. “What sort of food do you fancy?”
Ryan might not have the most finely tuned social antennae but he could recognize a change in subject when he saw one. “Anything.” Then he realized what he’d said and amended it. “Anything that includes dessert and alcohol.”
“I’m insulted you think I’d consider anything else.”
They found a restaurant that looked good without being fashionable enough to require reservations. Or maybe it was the way the maître d’s eyes widened fractionally when Josh took off his ball cap that assured them of a table. Either way,
“You want to cut through?” The green of the grass and shrubbery looked more inviting than the traffic and the hard sidewalk.
“Sure,” Josh said agreeably, and they meandered over the short-mown grass, past flower beds and statues and fountains. France obviously did public parks in style.
Ryan bumped Josh’s shoulder to get his attention and stopped, his interest drawn by something to their left. “You see what I see?”
“Ryan, you’ve just spent all fucking day on one of those things.”
Ryan blinked. There’d been real hostility in Josh’s voice as he’d stared at the public tennis court. He shrugged, half in apology and half because he wasn’t sure how to respond. “It just takes me back to when I was a kid,” he said. “Every Saturday and Sunday, Paul and I would get to the park as early in the morning as we could, before the grownups got there, so we could play without getting thrown off.”
“Is Paul your brother?”
“My best friend, until his family moved away when we were nine.”
“Is he a tennis player too?”
Ryan snorted, and then he couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed until he had tears in his eyes. “Dear God, no ,”he gasped out at last. “Any day he managed to get a ball back across the net was a red-letter day. Hand-eye coordination was not his bag, which is kind of a worry now that I think about the fact he’s a bariatric surgeon.”
There was a slight frown on Josh’s face. “If he sucked, why did you play with him? Why did he want to play?”
“Because it was fun,” Ryan said, as if it was self-evident. Which it was.
Josh turned and looked at him, looking even more puzzled as he shoved his hands in the front pockets of his pants, and Ryan refused to think about the way that must be pulling the silky gray material taut across his ass. “If you were one of those people who played for fun, how come you got as good as you are?”
Josh thought he was good? Ryan preened internally for an instant before remembering Josh was waiting for an answer. “One of the guys we beat to the court used to let me play him sometimes, and he must have seen something in me because he suggested I join a club and get lessons. I begged my mom and dad until they gave in just to shut me up. Paul took up playing the trumpet instead, and here I am.”
“And here you are,” Josh murmured and started walking again.
“So how did you start playing?” Ryan asked, matching his stride to Josh’s. “I guess with your dad it was kind of inevitable.”
“I don’t remember not playing,” Josh said. “It’s just something I did, like learning to walk.”
“How old were you when you first remember playing?”
Josh shrugged. “Dunno. I won my first tournament when I was five.”
Ryan’s mouth hung open for a minute before he remembered just how unflattering a look Elena said that was on him. “Are you serious? My grandma and grandpa bought me one of those kids’ sets, which was what gave me the bug, but that was for my sixth birthday. It took me most of the next year to figure out which way round to hold the racket.”
Josh’s lips twisted. “That’s what you get for being the son of a frustrated pro sportsman, I guess,” he said. “What sort of food do you fancy?”
Ryan might not have the most finely tuned social antennae but he could recognize a change in subject when he saw one. “Anything.” Then he realized what he’d said and amended it. “Anything that includes dessert and alcohol.”
“I’m insulted you think I’d consider anything else.”
They found a restaurant that looked good without being fashionable enough to require reservations. Or maybe it was the way the maître d’s eyes widened fractionally when Josh took off his ball cap that assured them of a table. Either way,
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