A/N: God, I love these two. With excitement surrounding the reboot rising and Wimbledon not too far off (and the French Open happening right this very moment), I thought I would combine my adoration for Rogan and tennis and create this little story. I'm imagining something between a two and three shot, but it could go up to a four shot.

Title is a complete and utter pun, forgive me. This story is very, very loosely inspired by the film Wimbledon, which is one of my all-time favourites, please don't judge me. And can we pretend Dean and Logan are slightly taller than they are in the show? Just for kicks.

Enjoy!


A Game of Love | Wild Cards


"Hey, kid."

Rory Gilmore heard a faint voice, but it was too far away and muffled to put a face to. She groaned, turning over in her bed and pulling her duvet up and over her ears.

"Very funny. It's time to get up, Rory."

The voice was clearer now. It was her mother.

"Go away," she groaned. "It's too early."

Lorelai laughed and tugged on Rory's covers. "You haven't even opened your eyes. You don't know what time it is."

A rush of warm air drifted over Rory as her duvet slipped across her body. Startled, she lifted her head up, blinking sleep from her eyes. Outside her window, she could see the sun still making its trek above the trees.

"Oh my God, it's so early," she whimpered, banging her head back down on her pillow. "Why am I awake?"

"Because I woke you up," Lorelai reminded her, deadpan. "Training starts at seven, Rory. Luke will be really not very happy if you're late. Again," she added.

Rory rolled on to her back and stared at her mother. "Can't I quit? You said I could quit anytime I liked."

"Yeah, when you were ten and I couldn't get the damn racquet out of your hands. You're twenty-one, kid. That ship sailed the day you turned eighteen." Lorelai poked Rory's stomach, causing the younger Gilmore to wriggle out of the way. "Seriously, get up. I'm not dealing with Angry Luke today," she said, turning and retreating from Rory's bedroom.

Sighing dramatically, Rory sat up against her headboard and rubbed at her eyes. She checked the alarm clock by her bed, seeing it was only 6:38 in the morning. Luke had been starting their practices earlier and earlier since summer began. As dedicated as Rory was to her tennis career, she absolutely abhorred having to wake up before at least ten.

"You know," Lorelai called from the kitchen. Rory could smell bacon. She could hear it sizzle in the pan. Her stomach shrieked, betraying her. "You wouldn't be so tired if you didn't stay up so late reading."

The woman had a point, Rory had to admit as she peeked over the side of her bed and saw a pile of five books on her bedside table. She had managed to finish them all in two days, finding time to read in-between practices and, of course, when she was meant to be sleeping.

But she loved books almost as much as she loved tennis, which was really and truly saying something, considering how passionate she was about the sport that had shaped her life since her grandfather—two-time Wimbledon champion Richard Gilmore—gave her a racquet and a summer's-worth of free lessons at his country club on her sixth birthday.

Deciding it was safer to get up now than face the wrath of Angry Luke later, Rory put on her slippers and went into the kitchen. She hugged her mother from behind as she cooked Rory a champion's breakfast complete with bacon, two types of eggs, a fruit plate, and some fried tomatoes.

"I'm proud of you," her mother said when Rory released her and sat at the kitchen table. Her back was still turned, spatula still scrambling eggs. "I gave up this life when I was fifteen, but you . . ."

Lorelai's comment stretched into nothingness, but Rory didn't need to hear the end. They had been through this same conversation countless times since Rory herself reached the golden age of fifteen. Being the daughter of a world champion tennis star wasn't easy for her mother, and in an act of rebellion she quit the sport after a particularly bad argument with Rory's grandmother, Emily. Three months later, Rory was conceived and Lorelai officially gave up on her childhood dream of being just like her father.

When Rory's grandfather had given her that tennis racquet on her birthday fifteen years ago, Lorelai had stormed out of her grandparent's extravagant house in an angry huff. She didn't want Rory to go through the same things she had when she was younger. Didn't want her parents' influence to effect which path Rory chose to follow.

Her anger only faded when she watched Rory play for the first time. She saw how quickly Rory picked it up, how hard she fell in love after only one lesson, and couldn't find it in herself to remain bitter.

Sometimes, Rory wondered if her mother missed the life she would have had if she hadn't gotten pregnant. If that was why she reacted so harshly when Rory started playing tennis. She never asked the question—she was far too afraid of the answer—but it always lingered in the back of her mind.

"So, what's on the proverbial chopping block for today?" Lorelai sat down with Rory at the table and dug into her own food.

Rory shrugged. "The usual probably. Suicide runs and such."

"Blech. I hate suicide runs."

"Well, it's a good thing you don't have to do them."

Lorelai pointed her fork at Rory, a playful frown pulling at her eyebrows. "Hey, I could do suicide runs if I wanted to."

"Oh, sure you could, Mom. I have no doubt," Rory said, smiling into her eggs.

"You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. And if you disagree with me, I could throw you on to the streets and you'd have to live outside of Taylor's shop, just waiting every evening for closing time so you could steal all of the rotten produce and stale bread from the trash bins. But then, Taylor would find out and have you arrested, and you'd live the rest of your life doing suicide runs in your tiny 6x8 cell." Lorelai concluded her rant by taking a piece of bacon and tearing into it.

"Well," Rory weighed, "I'm sure I'd be able to do my suicide runs in the yard during my one hour of outside time."

Once breakfast was over—which only managed to happen when Rory gave in and accepted her mother's ability to still run suicide drills—Rory ran into her bedroom to change. It was June, which meant humidity had begun its reign of terror in Stars Hollow, Connecticut. Rory put on her favourite training outfit—shorts and a racerback tank top with a black sports bra to match, and her worn trainers—and tied her hair in a ponytail. Luke would disapprove of her choice of shoes, as it was his general rule that she get new tennis shoes every six months, but these were her favourite. She won her first professional junior match in these when she was sixteen. Luke would just have to shut up and deal with it.


"No," was the first word out of Luke's mouth when she showed up at the tennis courts just outside of Stars Hollow.

Rory put down her gym bag and racquet case. She sat on the ground without being asked, legs out, and started stretching. "No what?" she questioned, nose touching her knee.

"No to the shoes, Rory. You can't train in those. We've talked about this before."

Switching legs, Rory shook her head before going down. "You talked about it. I ignored," she corrected. "These are my favourite shoes in the whole wide world. I'm not going to change them out for training."

Luke Danes, three time Grand Slam champ, audibly sighed. Rory, whose face was still parallel to the floor of the tennis court, imagined him sliding a hand over his scruff. She smiled at the thought.

"Fine. But the moment you're in London, you're changing shoes."

Snapping back up, Rory frowned. "We're not going to Wimbledon, Luke. Not this year."

"You have a real shot, Rory. It may be just for mixed doubles, but they'll see you and Dean out there and think about you for singles next year. Especially if we can get you into the U.S. Open as well."

Her coach had far too much faith in her. Dean, her mixed doubles partner and real-life partner, was amazing on the court, there was no doubt about that, and even he hadn't been seriously considered for a singles spot that summer. The news had bummed him out more than her, but Luke was convinced they would be chosen as wild card entries for mixed doubles.

"We're American. I think you forget that sometimes," Rory said, getting into a plank position.

Her warmup routine hadn't changed in the three years Luke had been her coach/trainer. He didn't need to tell her what to do.

"What do you mean?"

Breathless, Rory said, "Well, when was the last time an American won Wimbledon." Luke opened his mouth, but Rory knew what he was going to say. "And don't give me the Bryan twins. Or Serena. None of them count."

Luke took a moment to think about it. "Sampras won in 2000."

"You know what, he doesn't count either."

Luke threw up his hands. "I still don't know what you're talking about."

Taking a few moments to complete her plank, Rory sat back on the court and stretched her arms. "We're never the favourites. The only American tennis players people can name are the Williams sisters, the Bryan twins, and maybe Roddick. Maybe."

"You're forgetting Sampras. Billie Jean." He paused to think for a moment, eyes cast upwards to the sun. Snapping his fingers, he smiled down at Rory as she was rotating her shoulders. "John Freaking McEnroe. Hell, Patrick McEnroe."

Rory shook her head. "No, I'm not forgetting them. Nobody knows who they are anymore. Not today's generation. I know who they are because of how deeply tennis runs in my blood. Luke, I know John Freaking McEnroe. But the average joe either doesn't care enough about tennis to know who anybody is, let alone the greats, or they only vaguely know who Roger Federer is. We Americans don't exactly catch the eye."

"I don't know," Luke contemplated. "There are those two heading to their first Wimbledon this summer. Huntzberger and Geller. They're mixed doubles partners and have a real shot at getting somewhere in the singles."

Rory stood up, finished with her stretches. Walking over to where she dropped her things, she unzipped her racquet case and pulled her trusty Wilson out, testing its strings before walking over to the other side of the net. Luke stood at the other side, a racquet in his hands, a large basket of tennis balls by his feet.

"They're just pretty faces," Rory said in reference to the comment about Logan Huntzberger—of the golf-famous Huntzbergers—and Paris Geller, two young American players who both happened to be blond. "America's tennis fans will only care about them until they inevitably lose their streak. The rest of the world probably isn't even paying attention."

Thirty minutes into their training session, a car pulled up and out hopped Dean Forester. His hair was crooked that morning, but he still looked as handsome as ever to Rory. She went over to him, ignoring Luke's glare at the sound of her racquet falling to the ground, as he came through the gate and gave him a kiss.

"Nice of you to join us," she said against his mouth. Her arms coiled around his neck.

He smiled down at her and gripped her waist, his eyebrows pulled together. "How did you get here before me?"

Rory let him go and stood back. She looked at Luke, then returned her gaze to Dean. "What do you mean? Practice started at 7:00."

"No, Luke said 7:30. Not 7:00."

"What!" Rory turned her whole body towards Luke. "You told me it started at 7:00!"

Luke rolled his eyes. "I thought if I told you to be here thirty minutes early you'd actually be on time for once. I didn't know Lorelai would force you to get up. That's what you get for still living with your mother when you're twenty-one."

Shaking her head bitterly, Rory grabbed her racquet off of the ground and walked to the other side of the net again. Dean joined her a few moments later.

"Breakfast after?" he asked, knowing the mention of food would distract her from being angry at Luke.

"Fine," she said, giving in. She was never one to turn down the prospect of more food. "But I'm still mad."


Rory had met Dean three years ago during her first ATP/WTA World Tour in Madrid—in which she was a wild card entry—when he came to congratulate her on her win against Anabel Medina. She knew who he was already, had been following his progress since she discovered he hailed from a town just outside of Stars Hollow that somehow managed to be even smaller in population and size. Their romance began fairly soon after that, and had been going strong ever since. They joined forces on the mixed doubles court when Luke suggested she find a partner to get her foot in the Grand Slam door. Dean was her first choice, and Luke, after studying his game, agreed with her decision so long as their personal lives stayed off of the court.

Really, that wasn't an issue. In the three years they'd been together, they rarely fought.

After practice, Dean took her to a twenty-four hour diner in his hometown where they served the best breakfast foods known to mankind. Rory always insisted they eat there, no matter the time of day. She was sure he was sick of the food by then, but she couldn't get enough.

"You're like a hoover. You know that, right?" he said as she finished her second plate of food.

"So I've heard. Food just tastes so good."

"And it never seems to have any effect on you. Scientists would love to cut you open once you're dead."

Rory laughed, taking another sip of coffee. "I'll make sure they get ahold of me."

As their conversation drifted into nonsensical things, the door to the diner burst open.

Rory spluttered, watching Luke run over to them.

"Luke, what are you"—

—"You got in!" he exclaimed. He looked to Dean. "You got in!"

Still confused—how could she not be—Rory took Luke's arm. "Got in where?"

Eyes bright, tail bushy, Luke grabbed Rory's shoulders and pulled her to her feet. He hugged her, hard. "Wimbledon!" he shouted in her ear. "You guys are playing mixed doubles at Wimbledon! You got in! You're wild cards!"

Rory gasped, her arms immediately going around Luke's waist. Her eyes stung with dumbfounded tears.

Wimbledon. She was going to Wimbledon.


It was raining in London. Her grandfather had warned her this would most likely be the case, but Rory had been hoping for a bit of sunshine before the games began. On the other hand, she didn't really mind the dark clouds. She was in London. For Wimbledon. She, Rory Gilmore, was finally at Wimbledon. The rain was totally worth it.

Though she had only been in London for two days, she had met plenty of other players. None of the big names yet, but that wasn't surprising considering how close they were to the tournament starting. They were all either working their asses off in training or avoiding the smaller people at all costs.

She had been scouting the competition online since she received the unbelievable news back in early June. There had been a few articles written about her and Dean's shocking arrival. Mostly, they touched on Rory's grandfather and how proud he must be that his granddaughter had made it to Wimbledon, the only grand slam title he ever achieved—no matter that he achieved it twice. They mentioned her mother too, but she generally skipped over those parts. She didn't want her miraculous conception and its subsequent forcing of her mother's early retirement—if quitting out of spite counted as early retirement—to be plastered over the Internet.

Dean's name popped up only briefly in the articles. The journalists open enough to discussing her usually only talked about their romantic relationship and how it was either great they were also partners on the court, or how it was detrimental to their game. Nothing about him winning silver at the Junior Olympics. Nothing about how amazingly tall he was. Nobody even passingly discussed his close friendship with John Isner, fellow freakishly-tall person.

There were two people Rory was most worried about who had been covered in many magazines and online journals since they were announced to be seeded at Wimbledon: Paris Geller and Logan Huntzberger. Nearly every article she read about Wimbledon covered them in some way, and they always brought up how terrifying the pair were when they played both together and apart. Just the idea of potentially meeting them not only on the court but in person frightened Rory, who was still very convinced she and Dean would be sent home after the first round.

Logan Huntzberger was the rebellious son of a world-famous golfing family, only labeled rebellious by the media because of his decision to pick up a tennis racquet and not a golf club. Oh, and also his late-night partying habits and affairs with leggy female tennis players. Rory had stumbled across a few photographs of some recognisable players—none of whom were American; she would have to point that out to Luke—leaving his New York apartment building wearing what remained of their outfits from the night before.

His on-court behaviour was notable as well. Anger, he had said in interviews, won him matches and it was evident when one watched him play he was telling the truth. He had nearly as many racquet abuse violations per match as McEnroe. Umpires were apparently as frightened of him as his opponents were.

By his side during mixed doubles matches was Paris Geller. She had no known tennis playing relatives. The first of her family to make it to the top, so the papers said. Her anger was never as evident as Huntzberger's. Always covered with icy smiles and glares. Still, she was a force to be reckoned with. She made it to the finals against Serena Williams last year at Roland Garros, losing only after twisting her ankle so badly it was on the brink of fracturing. Williams had to put up a fight even with the injured Geller playing the other side of the net.

Basically, with those two on the courts, her and Dean had no chance.

Despite the rain, Rory found herself wandering London with an umbrella in hand. She had made it to a tour of the Warner Bros. Harry Potter studio earlier in the day and was now walking through the busy streets towards the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, glad it was her day off. Dean still had training to complete, but she was happy to be on her own.

As she came up the steps of the gallery, her phone buzzed inside her bag. Pulling it out, she saw her mother's face stapled on her screen. Rory grinned as she answered.

"Bonjour."

"Bonjour? You haven't lied about this whole Wimbledon thing as a clever ruse to get you and Dean to Paris for two weeks, have you?"

"Yes, Mother. I lied about getting into Wimbledon just so I could run away to France for two weeks with my boyfriend."

"Hey, don't sound so sarcastic. I would totally have done that at your age."

Rory smiled into the phone. She missed her mom whenever they apart, hence part of the reason she lived at home despite being well over the age most people moved away. Because her father abandoned them before Rory was even born, it had always been the two of them. She couldn't leave just because she was getting somewhere in the tennis world.

"Does it sound like something I would do?" Rory asked, leaning against a pillar, allowing the rain to spritz over her.

"Definitely. I know you're secretly stealing moves from my Rebellious Handbook."

"Mom, why did you call me?"

"Whoa, who spit in your English breakfast tea this morning?" Lorelai asked jokingly. "He-he. Did you like my twist on who spit in your coff"

—"Yep, Mom, it was great. Seriously though, why are you calling me?"

"Geez-Louise. I just wanted to see how you were doing without me."

Rory wiped her head with the back of her hand, catching a few rain droplets before they could fall into her eyes. "Sorry, Mom. It's just been a really stressful week so far and I want to get into the National Gallery before it's too crowded."

"Only my daughter would go to an art gallery when she's training to play at Wimbledon. Is Dean with you?"

"Nope. He's got some sessions with Luke then he's got to go to the gym."

"So you're all alone?" Lorelai sounded sad, which made Rory's heart hurt.

"I'm okay, Mom, don't worry. I'm in London, how could I be lonely?"

"You're right," her mother said, though Rory could hear her swallow thickly. "And I'll be there next week to cheer you and Dean on."

"Can't wait," Rory said, excited for her mother to come to London. "Look, I'll call you when I get back to the hotel. Love you!"

"Enjoy Paris," Lorelai teased.

Rory hung up the phone, put it back in her bag and headed over to the gallery's entrance.


The next couple of days were packed with training and practices. Luke had Dean and Rory working harder than they had ever had to work before. By the end of their sessions, Rory's legs and arms and brain were all aching and in desperate need of rest.

Because the sun had finally decided to show itself, Luke was allowing Rory and Dean to practice volleying and serves outside by themselves. Although she really wanted to be in the heart of London seeing all of the sights and enjoying time with her boyfriend, Rory's addiction to tennis kept her working hard against her play-opponent, whose 11" height advantage had yet to deter her in any way.

"Oh, and another ace for Rory Gilmore. Dean Forester is really off his game today, folks. Not only is he missing his serves, he's also being beaten by none other than his girlfriend at, literally, his own game," Rory commentated, shimmying across the serve line as Dean went to gather another one of her ace balls.

"That dance would definitely get you in trouble with the umpire," Dean pointed out upon his return. He took his stance at the serve line and bounced the frayed ball a few times. "And I definitely let you have that one."

Rory nodded, lips pursed. She crouched down just inside the line, ready for Dean's serve. "Sure you did, buddy. Sure."

Dean tossed the ball in the air, ignoring Rory's taunting, and put his racquet down hard, sending the ball flying towards Rory. She was ready, though, already in position, and immediately whacked the ball across the court in the other direction. Dean's legs carried him cross-court, where he backhanded the ball.

Too much force. The ball landed just outside the line.

"What's the score now? Thirty to love?" Rory panted, sweat dripping down her forehead as she headed towards the net. She lifted her wrist and swiped her sweatband over her damp skin. "Or is it forty to love now?"

Dean met her on his side and leaned down so they were at eye level. "If we had been playing doubles, that would have been in."

"Yeah, well, we're not playing doubles."

Smiling sweetly, Rory leaned in and gave Dean a quick kiss before turning around to serve. She grabbed the old ball they should definitely have changed a few rounds ago and took her place at the line.

Focus, Rory, she told herself, staring at the hard court beneath her feet. Bouncing the ball, she looked up at Dean. This match was for fun—they weren't even keeping score (well, Dean wasn't keeping score)—but Rory was born with a stubborn need to win. And the wonderful thing about playing against the man who was both her boyfriend and tennis partner was how in-tune she was with his game. He had ticks she'd been studying since they met, spending hours pouring over videos on YouTube of the many matches he'd taken part in.

Dean was huge, he didn't need to rely on the other player to know how to beat him. He merely beat them by being taller. On the other hand, she was at least two inches shorter than most professional female players. Her main goal prior to meeting her opponent was researching their entire tennis career, trying to memorise their technique. She knew Dean's better than anyone else's.

Tall though he was, Dean was slow to move towards the ball. It took him a second to evaluate where it was going because he hadn't been anticipating before the toss. So, Rory decided to send the ball down the centre. He may just be able to clip it with his racquet, but Rory was prepared for that.

Throwing the ball in the air, Rory eyed it, her body tight, arm ready to swing. Just as the ball headed down, something knocked her in the back of the head, jerking her body forwards. Rory's racquet dropped to the ground, landing with a loud thud.

"Rory, are you okay?" Dean jumped over the net, making her think for the shortest moment he should have chosen hurdling when his parents made him pick a sport in junior high. He reached her, immediately squatting and inspecting her eyes.

Rubbing the back of her head, Rory winced. "I think so." She twisted her neck, looking over the short fence to the court behind them. "Who sent that over here?"

Before Dean could respond, Rory caught sight of her assailant hopping over the fence. His blond hair was covered with a white Under Armour cap, but Rory knew that face. She'd seen it plastered over Wimbledon billboards all over London. She'd been staring at it during her stalking sessions on the Internet.

Logan Huntzberger. And he was heading her way.

When he reached her and Dean, who had returned to his full height and was protectively holding her shoulder, he smiled sheepishly, showing off his glaringly white teeth.

"I'm sorry about that," he apologised, his voice scratchy. Logan looked back briefly at his court. "I was testing out this new serve technique."

He returned his gaze to Rory. She ticked an eyebrow up.

Dean, somehow, pulled Rory closer to him. "Well, I definitely think you can cross that off your list of potential serves," he said, an edge to his tone Rory had only heard once in their entire relationship when she was being chatted up by a member of their tennis club.

"Yeah, definitely." Logan's eyes—hazel, which surprised Rory; she had always thought they were green—inspected her face, causing the blood in her cheeks to inexplicably pull closer to the surface of her skin. "Really, I am sorry . . ."

He trailed off, obviously looking for a name.

Dean beat her to the punch. "Rory," he said firmly.

Logan Huntzberger's face brightened considerably. His sheepish smile turned rich and charming. "Oh, Rory Gilmore. Granddaughter of Richard Gilmore." He extended his hand. Dazed, Rory reached for it, stunned by how powerful his grip was. "What a pleasure. I hear you've got some kick-ass serving techniques. How's your head?"

"Her head"— Dean began.

—"My head," she interrupted sharply, discreetly nudging Dean's side. Her lip curled to one side when he winced. "Is throbbing. How fast was that thing going?"

Logan shrugged, his Under Armour shirt rising with his shoulders to reveal a line of his stomach. Rory barely caught a glimpse of it, but she swore she spotted the telltale black curl of a tattoo on his hip. That was new. She hadn't seen it in any of the photographs online.

"My average is 140, but I was angry and put a bit more into that one, so it could have been as high as 150." He wasn't bragging, but Rory could tell Dean felt threatened by the way he tensed beside her. "You should probably but some ice on it."

"Right, I'll get on that," Rory gritted, her skull pounding.

The trio stood there in silence for a few seconds, the London sun bleeding through their skin. Rory focused on how tight Logan's shirt fit around his torso to try and combat the pain, but quickly realised how silly it was to do that and instead moved her attention to the court Logan had vacated.

"I'm Logan, by the way," he mentioned, as if they didn't already know, offering Dean a handshake. Rory knew how this was going to end. "Logan"—

—"Huntzberger, yeah." Dean didn't take the proffered hand, nor did he offer up his own name.

She loved Dean, truly, but he was so stiff around competition. It didn't matter of they were from the tennis world or the real world—whether they were after his tennis trophies or her—he treated them all the same. Like they were actively trying to steal something away from him.

Returning his hand to his side, Logan looked to Rory for help.

"Dean," she provided, managing to actually hear her boyfriend's eye roll.

"That makes sense," Logan said. "Your mixed doubles partner. Well, Paris and I hope to see you two on the court sometime in the next couple of weeks. What do you think?"

"We're really not expecting to go too far, but I'm sure it would be an honour for both Dean and I to go out with a bang against you and Geller," Rory said.

Smiling, Logan bobbed his head once. "Excellent. See you around," he said, looking directly at Rory. He pointed to her head. "Don't forget to ice that."

After Logan hopped back over the fence, Dean pulled Rory to the benches and grabbed at an icepack he had stored in his bag. He pressed it to the back of Rory's skull, apologising when she hissed.

"It's fine," she said, holding the pack in place.

"He was an asshole."

Rory blinked in surprise. "Who? Logan?"

"Yeah. He probably hit you on purpose so he could come over here and flirt with you. In front of me."

Rory's skin heated. "He wasn't flirting with me," she insisted, though she wasn't sure she entirely believed herself. "And he one-hundred percent didn't hit me on purpose. Who hits people with tennis balls on purpose?"

"Assholes," Dean said matter-of-factly. "Which Logan Huntzberger is."

Touching Dean's cheek, Rory offered him a small smile. "Hey, I'm fine. Really, though, what could you expect from him? He's steadily rising to the top of the ranks, he's taken thousands of supermodels to bed, and he's just got one of those nothing-you-can-say-or-do-will-deter-me kind of attitudes. Of course he's a little bit of an ass."

"Oh, God, he's gotten under your skin, hasn't he. That bastard."

Rory laughed. She couldn't help herself. "No, he's not gotten under my skin. Yours, however . . ."

"Ha," Dean huffed, kissing Rory's temple. "Let's get you to your room. Luke will want to look at your head."

Rising to her feet, Rory took Dean's hand and let him lead her towards their hotel, trying to convince herself the pink dusting her cheeks and chest was from a combination of heat and exertion. God forbid it was caused by anything—or anyone—else.


A/N 2: Intrigued? I hope you are and I really hope you plan on joining this story's journey!