Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (4 page)

I have just enough time to swish my shoulder-length dark hair up into a ponytail when I hear voices chatting animatedly and two middle-aged women in tennis
clothes walk through the door into the changing room.

“
I know! Especially when he helps you with your racquet grip,” says one of the women. She fans her grinning face with her hand.

“
Oh my, yes. Now
that’s
something he can help me with any day,” says the other, looking flushed, clearly thinking about whoever it is that’s incited such feelings.

My guess is it’s
their tennis coach and they’ve both just enjoyed a hands-on lesson with him. The women sigh, both seemingly lost in their randy thoughts, and then simultaneously notice me standing close by, quite obviously watching them. They look a little taken aback, so I smile awkwardly at them, say “hi”, turn the key on my locker and then slip out the door.

Taylor, the
receptionist, points me towards one of the courts at the back of the complex where the session is about to begin.

It’s
a stunning spring day - cool but bright and sunny. It strikes me the air is much fresher here than in London, but then it’s not surprising, considering there are only about thirty people who actually live here breathing it.

I know
, I’m exaggerating.

Most importantly though, it’s not windy, which is quite miracu
lous for Wellington, especially at this time of year. I know people complain about the wind in Wellywood, and if you’re not used to it, it comes as a serious shock. I’ve literally had to hold onto traffic light poles while waiting to cross the road and have sacrificed many an umbrella to the wind gods on a wet and windy day. It’s not an understatement in any way to say you certainly don’t move here for the weather.

As I approach the court
I hear an American man’s voice float over to me from a group of people. Although I can only see the back of his head and the rest of him is obscured by the throng of eager women, I can see enough to work out he’s probably the coach the middle-aged women were getting all flustered about in the changing room.

I bet he’s some old,
greying has-been in reasonably good shape who’s got the housewives all excited because he shows them a little interest and flatters their egos.

Well
, he won’t have any such effect on me. I lean over at the edge of the court to put my bag next to the others and take out my racquet.

But as I straighten up and look over at the group he turns around
and locks me with his piercing gaze, smiling at me as he listens to one of the women’s animated stories about how his coaching had helped her beat a member from an opposing club the previous week.

Oh. My. God. I catch my breath as I take in his Greek Adonis-like gorgeousness
, feeling a blush rising up my neck. He’s probably about 6’2” or 6’3”, broad-shouldered, athletic, full head of not even slightly greying hair. When he smiles he reveals a perfect set of very American looking teeth. What’s more, he’s not old at all, more like
my
age.

He’s wearing a slim-fitting orange and white T-shirt that really shows off his
tennis pro tan and more than hints at the muscular torso beneath. His legs are long and muscular, but not too bulky - not like one of those scary, over done bodybuilder types - and he has an air of confidence about him that is undeniably hot.

H
e’s more attractive than any single person has the right to be. He is, what my friend Lindsay used to call, “the total freakin’ package”.

All right
, Jess, time to breathe. I collect myself enough to straighten up, push my chest out to its best advantage - come on, I’m only human - and try to look as nonchalant as possible as he walks towards me, arm outstretched.

“
You must be Jessica. Taylor told me we might be getting a new girl today. Hi, I’m Scott. I’m the coach,” he adds, somewhat unnecessarily, as it’s pretty obvious he’s the one in control here. And not just of the tennis.

With an enormous effort
I pull my eyes from his face and stare down at his hand, mesmerized by him. I know there’s something I should be doing with his hand right now. Oh yeah, that’s right, shake it!

“
Hi, Scott. Yes, I’m the new girl,” I stammer. Did I really just giggle? Get a hold, Jess.

“
My name is Jessica Banks. Pleased to meet you,” I continue in an attempt to appear cool and casual, as though I meet impossibly good looking men every day of my life.

I reach out and shake his hand, hoping my palms haven’t started sweating too much, and feeling I could me
lt into a blob of human flesh on the spot.

Why didn’t I put on any mascara this morning? Or
lip-gloss? Surely I could have managed a bit of lip-gloss, for the love of God!

“
Great!” He releases my hand, still smiling at me. “Before we start, can you tell me a little about yourself?”

He wants to know about me? Is he interested in me? My heart starts
palpitating even faster and my tomato blush deepens to a deeply unattractive beetroot.

“
About me? Well, I’ve just moved to Wellington from London. I totally loved living over there and don’t really want to be here, but here I am, and I’m starting up a new business with my friend Morgan, which I’m really excited about, and... Oh.”

I stop
myself rambling suddenly as I notice the amused look on his face. “You mean tell you about my
tennis
, don’t you?”

I wish the
court would open up and swallow me whole. Right now.

“
Yes, kinda did, but it’s great to hear about your life too,” he replies, clearly enjoying my obvious discomfort.

“
So,” he continues, focusing on the task at hand. “How would you rate your game and your level of fitness? Just so I know how hard to run you today.”

I’ve recovered a little from my schoolgirl rambling but am still blushing profusely, hoping he doesn't notice but fully suspecting a malfunctioning heat-seeking missile would have absolutely no trouble finding me right now.

“
Umm, well, I’m probably about an intermediate player, although I haven't played for a few years. Probably average fitness? Yeah, probably about average, slightly better when I haven’t just got off a twenty-four-hour flight. But I already told you about that, didn’t I?” I ask with a cheeky grin, attempting to make light of my embarrassing faux pas.

“
Yeah, you did,” he replies, giving me a subtle but unmistakably mischievous smile in return.

There’
s that feeling again. Come on Jess, get a grip!

“
Right ladies,” he turns towards the group who I’ve barely noticed as we’ve been talking. “It’s time to get moving, so Jessica, why don’t you go and join Stacey, Kyra, Amanda, and Chris at my end of the court, and Jonelle, Tara, Lily, and Rhonda, you ladies go to the other end of the court. Let’s get started with some cross-court forehands.”

E
xpertly he hits the first ball to Kyra, one of the athletic middle-aged women in my group, who whacks it across court with impressive strength and accuracy. I’m up next, telling myself I’m here for the tennis, not the tennis coach, so I concentrate really hard on ensuring I hit a good, clean ball. But as I draw back I get my footing all wrong and shank the ball into the adjoining court. Damn!

“
Never mind, Jessica, just go to the back and try again. You’ll get there, you know?” Scott calls out to me as he drills the next shot down the court.

After a shocking start
and an epic effort to concentrate on my game instead of on Scott I improve steadily during the forehand session and begin to find my rhythm by the time we move onto backhands, matching the other women shot for shot. I notice they’re all pretty handy players and most of them are wearing full makeup, dressed in the latest little tennis getups.

I must look like the poor cousin next to them,
makeup-less, hair pulled hastily into a ponytail, wearing what I now regard as an old, slightly tattered looking tennis outfit.

B
ut, I remind myself, I'm here for the tennis, not to flirt with the object of seemingly everyone’s desire.

But then
, now that I think about it, Mum did say this was a good way to meet a man, and Scott
is
a man, right?

After an hour of a full-on
workout I have a pretty good understanding of why it’s called
Cardio
Tennis and not
Relaxing
Tennis.

One of the women appro
aches me, sweaty, puffing but smiling. “Awesome session, wasn’t it?” she asks as she mops her brow with a towel. She then turns to take a slug of much needed water from her drink bottle.

I do the same.
“Yes. It was fantastic!” I reply as I wipe my mouth on my hand. “Do you come each week?”

“
Oh I come to Scott's sessions three times a week as well as play interclub on a Tuesday night. I love tennis!” She beams at me.

“
I can tell,” I laugh.

She seems nice, a
lbeit somewhat tennis-obsessed.

“
I’m Jess, although I guess you know that after Scott's intro before.”

“
Well, I'm Jonelle, and it's great to meet you. See you for the next session?” she asks as she picks up her tennis bag.

“
Definitely. It's such a good workout.”

“
Yes, and some nice eye candy too,” she replies, winking at me with a crooked smile as she walks away.

“
I hadn’t noticed,” I lie, thankful I'm already flushed from the exercise so Jonelle can't tell I've started blushing again.

I really need to pull myself together. I'm acting like a love-struck
thirteen-year-old meeting her teen idol, for god’s sake!

Just t
hen Scott approaches me, clipboard in hand.

“
So, Jessica Banks who has just moved back from London, can I sign you up for our next session? It’s on Friday at ten.”

He’
s standing so close to me we're almost touching and I can feel the little hairs on my forearms prickle.

“
Oh, yes,” I stammer. “That’d be just great. It was really fun. You're a good … err … coach. Thanks.”

Smooth, Jess, really smooth.

“Great. I'll put you down for Friday and look forward to seeing you again then.” He looks up from his clipboard as a guy walks onto the court. “There's my 11 o'clock. Take care, Jessica. See ya later.”

I turn to see who's approaching, more interested in whether Scott's
appointment is with some hot woman I might be jealous of, but realise it's Benjamin Pearson.

“
Hey Ben!” I call out to him as he walks onto the court. “They'll really just let anyone into tennis clubs these days.” I smile broadly at him, genuinely pleased to see my old buddy.

“Jess
! I heard you were back! It’s so great to see you,” Ben replies.

He
walks over and gives me a warm hug, despite my protestations that I’m all sticky with sweat from my workout. As always, I'm struck by how nice looking he is. Not a Scott-type Adonis of course, but he’s tall and broad, with a real sparkle in his bespectacled brown eyes.

He’s the kind of guy you’d take home to your mum
- dependable, responsible, successful, with an indefinable X-factor that makes him stand out from the crowd.

Ben and I go way back and I admit I've always secretly fancied him a bit, but we're
mates so I'd never actually act on it. Morgan, Laura, Lindsay and I met him at varsity back in the day, and we used to hang out loads together between lectures, as students do, putting the world’s wrongs to rights.

He was studying law and dating an impossibly gorgeous girl
at the time, the latter a habit he continues to this day and another reason I’d never try anything with him - I’m just not enough of a supermodel for his tastes.

He lived
in London for a few years and we had many a fun night out on the tiles there. He came back to Wellington at Christmas last year to set up a commercial law firm with a couple of others and I’ve heard it’s doing really well.

“
Just done Cardio Tennis,” I reply. “It was awesome. I need to hit the showers and then lie down for a serious amount of time now! I’m still pretty jetlagged.”

B
oth Ben and Scott are standing on the court, listening to me and I must admit it feels pretty exhilarating. Not that either of them are interested in me, I remind myself, and I hardly look my best in my slightly tatty tennis outfit, dripping in sweat.

But then I notice Scott
has a touch of a smirk on his face. I smile back at him and he holds my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than I expect him to, and that fraction is enough to plant the somewhat thrilling idea in my head that maybe, just maybe, he's thinking about me as more than just a tennis player.