Storyline of Serve Me! Ball Girl Heiress: A wealthy heiress poses as a ball girl to win her father’s approval, hiding her true identity from a smitten billionaire while fending off his vindictive socialite friend determined to ruin her.
Chapter One: The Courts of Deception
The afternoon sun blazed mercilessly over the Hamptons Tennis Club, turning the pristine white courts into a furnace of privilege and perspiration. Ingrid Voss—though no one here knew that name belonged to her—knelt on the burning concrete, gathering scattered tennis balls with practiced efficiency. The polyester uniform clung to her skin like a shameful secret, its cheap fabric a stark contrast to the haute couture hidden in her penthouse closet forty miles away.
Six months. Six more months of this charade before she could claim her inheritance and reveal herself as the true heir to the Voss empire. Six months of pretending to be nobody, of serving people who wouldn’t dare look her in the eye if they knew who she really was.
“You missed one.”
The voice cut through the heat like a blade of ice. Ingrid didn’t need to look up to know who it belonged to—Jordan Temple, second son of the Temple dynasty, and the most insufferable man she’d ever had the displeasure of serving.
The ball in question had rolled under his bench, mere inches from his Italian leather tennis shoes that cost more than her supposed monthly salary. He could have nudged it toward her with his foot. Instead, he sat back, legs spread in that casually dominant way that suggested the entire world existed for his convenience, and waited.
Ingrid rose slowly, her muscles protesting from hours of bending and fetching. She walked toward him, noting how his eyes tracked her movement with the lazy attention of a predator who wasn’t particularly hungry but enjoyed watching prey nonetheless.
Jordan Temple was unfairly attractive in that specific way of men who’d never had to work for anything—sharp jawline, sun-kissed skin that spoke of Mediterranean yachts rather than manual labor, and shoulders that filled out his designer tennis whites with almost obscene perfection. His dark hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at his temples, and when he smiled—which he was doing now—it was the smile of someone who knew exactly how devastating he was.
“My apologies, Mr. Temple,” she said, her voice carefully neutral as she bent to retrieve the ball. The movement put her at eye level with his thighs, and she couldn’t help but notice how the white shorts stretched across the muscled expanse.
“Your form is terrible,” he observed, and for a moment she thought he meant her posture until she realized he was critiquing how she picked up the ball. “You’re going to throw out your back bending like that. Here—”
Before she could react, his hands were on her waist, adjusting her stance. The touch was clinical, instructional, but his palms burned through the thin fabric like brands.
“Bend at the knees,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair at her nape. “Keep your back straight. Like this.”
His hands guided her down into a squat, fingers splayed across her ribcage with a possessiveness that had nothing to do with tennis instruction. Ingrid’s pulse hammered against her throat. She could smell him—expensive cologne failing to mask the underlying scent of clean sweat and something uniquely male that made her stomach clench.
“I didn’t realize ball retrieval required such… thorough instruction,” she managed, proud that her voice remained steady.
“Everything requires proper form,” Jordan replied, his thumbs tracing small circles against her ribs before releasing her. “Especially service.”
The double meaning wasn’t lost on her. She straightened, ball in hand, and met his gaze directly—a mistake. His eyes were the color of expensive whiskey, and right now they were studying her with an intensity that suggested he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“You’re different from the others,” he said abruptly.
“Other ball girls?”
“Other anyone.” He stood, towering over her five-foot-seven frame. “You have this way of looking at me like you’re humoring me. Like you know something I don’t.”
I know your company is hemorrhaging money, she thought. I know your father is desperately seeking a merger with Voss Industries. I know that in six months, you’ll be begging me for an audience.
“I wouldn’t presume to know anything about you, Mr. Temple,” she said instead.
“Liar.” The word was soft, almost affectionate. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek. “What’s your last name, Ingrid?”
“Smith,” she lied smoothly.
“Ingrid Smith.” He tested the name like wine, rolling it around his mouth. “Somehow, I doubt that. You have excellent posture for someone who supposedly grew up poor. Your hands are soft despite claiming to work multiple jobs. And when you think no one’s watching, you look at this place like you own it.”
Her heart stopped. Had she been that careless?
“Maybe I’m just ambitious,” she said, lifting her chin. “Maybe I’m studying how the wealthy behave so I can join your ranks someday.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” He stepped closer, backing her against the fence. The metal links pressed into her spine as he caged her with his arms. “Studying me?”
Chapter Two: The Lesson in Power
“Your game is starting soon,” Ingrid reminded him, though her voice came out breathier than intended.
“Let them wait.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “I’m more interested in this game.”
“There’s no game, Mr. Temple.”
“No?” He leaned closer, until his lips were barely an inch from hers. “Then why are you trembling?”
She was. Her entire body hummed with awareness, with the dangerous electricity of being so close to someone who could destroy her carefully constructed facade with a single background check. But there was something else too—a pull she couldn’t quite define, like her body recognized his on some primitive level that bypassed rational thought.
“It’s hot,” she said weakly.
“Yes,” he agreed, but his eyes said he wasn’t talking about the weather. “Which is why you’re going to help me with something.”
He pulled back, leaving her oddly bereft, and walked to his tennis bag. He pulled out a bottle of sunscreen and held it out to her.
“I can’t reach my back,” he said, though they both knew it was a lie.
Ingrid stared at the bottle like it was a loaded weapon. “That’s not part of my job description.”
“It is now.” His tone brooked no argument. “Unless you’d prefer I speak to management about your… attitude problem.”
The threat was clear. One word from Jordan Temple and she’d be fired, her cover blown, her inheritance forfeit. She took the bottle with hands that wanted to shake and followed him to the bench.
He sat down and pulled off his shirt in one fluid motion.
Jesus Christ.
His back was a masterpiece of lean muscle and golden skin, broken only by a thin scar that ran along his left shoulder blade. Without the shirt, she could see the full extent of his physique—not the bulky mass of a gym rat, but the functional strength of someone who played sports for the sheer joy of physical dominance.
“Lifetime warranty on that stare, or are you going to actually help me?”
Ingrid flushed, squeezing sunscreen into her palm with perhaps more force than necessary. The lotion was cold, and she took petty satisfaction in placing her hands directly on his skin without warning.
He hissed, muscles tensing under her touch. “Cold hands, warm heart?”
“Cold hands, cold heart,” she corrected, beginning to spread the lotion across his shoulders.
It should have been clinical. Should have been nothing more than an unpleasant task to endure. But the moment her hands made full contact with his skin, something shifted. His body was furnace-hot under her palms, all solid muscle and barely leashed power. She could feel his breathing, the expand-contract of his ribcage, the way his pulse hammered just beneath the surface.
“Harder,” he said, voice rougher than before.
“Excuse me?”
“The sunscreen. You’re barely touching me.” He turned his head slightly, catching her eye over his shoulder. “Unless you’re afraid?”
It was a challenge, clear and simple. And Ingrid Voss had never backed down from a challenge in her life.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders, using the same pressure she’d learned from professional massage therapists at five-star spas. Jordan’s head fell forward, and he made a sound that was distinctly unprofessional—a low groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Better?” she asked innocently, working her thumbs along his spine.
“Fuck,” he breathed, then caught himself. “I mean… yes.”
She smiled, a real smile this time, and continued her ministrations. She could feel the exact moment his control started to slip—his breathing became irregular, his hands clenched on his thighs, and when she traced her fingers along his ribs, he actually shuddered.
“You’re not a normal ball girl,” he said, voice strained.
“You’re not a normal player,” she countered, letting her nails scrape lightly against his skin as she pulled away.
He spun around so fast she stumbled backward. His hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could fall, and suddenly she was being pulled onto his lap.
“What are you—”
“Shut up,” he growled, and then his mouth was on hers.
Chapter Three: The Dance of Equals
The kiss was nothing like she’d expected from Jordan Temple. She’d assumed he’d kiss like he played tennis—all aggressive dominance and showy technique. Instead, he kissed like he was starving and she was sustenance, like he was drowning and she was air. His hands tangled in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and when his tongue swept against hers, she made a sound she’d never made before—needy and raw and absolutely mortifying.
She pushed against his chest, breaking away. “We can’t—”
“We can,” he interrupted, his hands settling on her waist to keep her in place. “We are.”
“I work here. You’re a member. This is—”
“Perfect,” he finished. “This is perfect.”
His thumbs were stroking the strip of skin where her shirt had ridden up, and each pass sent sparks shooting through her nervous system. She could feel him hard beneath her, the impressive evidence of his arousal pressing against her through their clothes.
“You don’t even know me,” she protested.
“I know enough.” His lips found her throat, and she gasped as he sucked lightly at her pulse point. “I know you’re not who you pretend to be. I know you look at me like you want to put me in my place. I know you have secrets that would probably destroy us both.”
He pulled back to look at her, and his eyes were dark with something that went beyond lust. “And I know I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the day you started here.”
The confession hung between them, unexpected and raw. Ingrid stared at him, this beautiful, arrogant man who had everything but was looking at her like she was the only thing worth having.
“Jordan,” she whispered, not Miss Temple, not sir, just his name.
Something flared in his eyes. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone with surprising gentleness. “Say it again.”
“Jordan,” she repeated, and watched his control shatter.
He kissed her again, harder this time, one hand fisting in her hair while the other pulled her tight against him. She could feel every inch of his body, all that hard muscle and heated skin, and god help her, she wanted more. Her hips rocked against him involuntarily, and he groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her entire body.
“Fuck, Ingrid,” he panted against her lips. “What are you doing to me?”
The same thing you’re doing to me, she thought desperately. Because this wasn’t part of the plan. She was supposed to lay low, serve her time, claim her inheritance. She wasn’t supposed to want Jordan Temple with a ferocity that scared her. She wasn’t supposed to melt when he touched her, wasn’t supposed to crave the weight of his hands, the heat of his mouth.
A whistle blew in the distance, signaling the start of match play.
They broke apart, breathing hard, staring at each other like they’d just discovered fire. Jordan’s hair was disheveled from her fingers, his lips swollen from kissing, and there was a mark on his shoulder where she’d apparently bitten him—when had that happened?
“Your match,” she said unnecessarily.
“Right.” But he didn’t move, didn’t release her. “Tonight.”
“What?”
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
It wasn’t a question. Ingrid slid off his lap, trying to gather the scattered pieces of her composure. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Jordan—”
“I’ll fire you.”
She froze. “What?”
He stood, crowding into her space. “I’ll have you fired if you don’t have dinner with me. And before you get on your high horse about blackmail, consider this—if you’re fired, there’s nothing stopping us from doing this properly.”
“This?”
“This.” He gestured between them. “Whatever this is. Because Ingrid Smith or whoever you really are, this isn’t going away. I can feel it. You can feel it. So we can either sneak around like teenagers, or you can let me fire you and take you to dinner like a civilized person.”
“That’s the least civilized proposition I’ve ever heard.”
He grinned, and it transformed his face from handsome to devastating. “I never claimed to be civilized. So what’s it going to be?”
Chapter Four: The Gambit
Ingrid made her decision in the space between heartbeats. “Fire me.”
Jordan blinked, clearly not expecting that response. “What?”
“You heard me.” She stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “Fire me, Jordan Temple. Call your manager friend, have me escorted off the premises. End this charade.”
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to intrigue giving way to something that looked dangerously like admiration. “You’re calling my bluff.”
“Am I?” She let her hand trail down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed under her touch. “Maybe I’m just tired of pretending to be something I’m not. Maybe I want to see if you’re brave enough to handle who I really am.”
“And who are you really?”
She smiled, the smile of Ingrid Voss, heir to a fortune that made the Temples look like new money. “Fire me and find out.”
Jordan caught her hand, pressing it flat against his chest where his heart was racing. “You’re dangerous.”
“You have no idea.”
He studied her for a long moment, and she could see him weighing his options, see the exact moment he decided to call her bluff. He pulled out his phone, never breaking eye contact, and dialed.
“Marcus? It’s Jordan Temple. I need you to process a termination… Yes, today. Ingrid Smith, ball attendant… No, no incident. I’ll explain later… Yes, effective immediately.”
He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “You’re fired, Miss Smith.”
“Voss,” she corrected, and watched his eyes widen. “Ingrid Voss.”
“Voss as in—”
“As in the company your father’s been trying to merge with for the past five years. As in the fortune that makes your family’s wealth look like pocket change. As in the woman who’s been serving you tennis balls while sitting on a trust fund worth more than this entire club.”
Jordan stared at her for so long she wondered if she’d broken him. Then he started to laugh—not a polite chuckle, but a full-bodied laugh that shook his entire frame.
“Jesus Christ,” he managed between breaths. “Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve been ordering around the Voss heir?”
“Technically, you’ve been attempting to seduce the Voss heir.”
“Is it working?”
The question caught her off-guard. He was looking at her with those whiskey eyes, and despite everything—despite the revelation, despite the power shift, despite the absurdity of it all—the want was still there, burning even brighter than before.
“That depends,” she said slowly.
“On?”
“On where you’re taking me to dinner.”
Chapter Five: The Unveiling
Three hours later, Ingrid stood in front of her bathroom mirror, hardly recognizing herself. Gone was the polyester uniform and hastily tied ponytail. In their place was a woman who looked like she’d been born to wealth—because she had been.
The dress was deceptively simple, black silk that looked modest until she moved and it revealed how perfectly it clung to every curve. Her hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and her makeup was subtle but transformative—highlighting cheekbones that had been hidden under baseball caps, emphasizing eyes that had been downcast in service.
Her phone buzzed. Jordan: Car’s outside.
She’d given him her real address, the penthouse that overlooked Central Park. She wondered what he’d thought when his driver pulled up to one of the most exclusive buildings in Manhattan.
The elevator ride down felt endless. Her stomach was in knots, which was ridiculous. She’d negotiated billion-dollar deals, had dined with heads of state, had built a reputation as one of the shrewdest business minds of her generation—albeit under pseudonyms and through proxies while she maintained her cover. Yet the thought of seeing Jordan Temple again, without any pretense between them, made her feel like a teenager on her first date.
He was waiting by a Bentley, and when he saw her, his expression went through several fascinating transitions. Surprise, desire, and something that looked almost like awe.
“Miss Voss,” he said formally, but his voice was rough.
“Mr. Temple,” she replied, accepting his hand as he helped her into the car.
The moment the door closed, the air changed. They were alone in the back seat, separated from the driver by privacy glass, and the space felt too small, too intimate.
“You look…” he started, then stopped.
“Different?” she suggested.
“Like yourself,” he corrected. “Like who you really are.”
“You don’t know who I really am.”
“Then tell me.” He shifted closer, his thigh pressing against hers. “Tell me why the Voss heir was playing ball girl at my club.”
So she did. She told him about the terms of her grandfather’s will, about having to prove she could survive without the family name or money for one year before claiming her inheritance. She told him about choosing the club because it was the last place anyone would look for her, about the humiliation and strange freedom of being nobody.
“Six months left,” she finished. “Six more months and I can be myself again.”
“You were yourself today,” Jordan said quietly. “When you kissed me. When you challenged me. That was the real you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s the same you I’ve been seeing glimpses of for weeks. The you who looked at me like I was an idiot when I complained about the temperature of my water. The you who bit back every sarcastic comment but couldn’t quite hide the spark in your eyes. The you who touched me today like…”
“Like what?”
“Like you owned me,” he said roughly. “Like you had every right to put your hands on me and make me beg.”
Heat flooded through her. “Did I make you beg?”
“You made me want to.” His hand found her thigh, fingers spreading possessively over the silk. “Is that what this is about? Power? Control?”
“Isn’t everything?”
“No.” He turned to face her fully, his other hand coming up to cup her jaw. “Sometimes it’s about hunger. Sometimes it’s about need. Sometimes it’s about finding someone who makes you want to destroy everything just to have them.”
Chapter Six: The Feast
Dinner was at Le Bernardin, because of course it was. Jordan had somehow managed to get them a private dining room with an hour’s notice, which spoke to the kind of power the Temple name still carried.
They sat across from each other, the table between them feeling like both a barrier and a promise. The wine was perfect, the food exquisite, but Ingrid barely tasted any of it. She was too aware of Jordan watching her, of the way his gaze tracked every movement of her hands, her mouth.
“You’re not eating,” he observed.
“Neither are you.”
“I’m distracted.”
“By?”
“You know by what.” His voice dropped lower. “I can’t stop thinking about earlier. About how you felt in my lap. About the sounds you made when I kissed you.”
“Jordan,” she warned, but his name came out breathless.
“I love how you say my name,” he continued, ignoring her warning. “I love that I’m apparently the only one who makes the great Ingrid Voss lose her composure.”
“You don’t make me lose anything,” she lied.
“No?” He stood abruptly, coming around the table. “Then you won’t mind if I do this.”
He pulled her to her feet, backing her against the wall. One hand braced beside her head while the other settled on her waist, hot and possessive through the silk.
“We’re in a restaurant,” she protested.
“A private room,” he countered. “With a locked door and soundproof walls.”
“How do you know they’re soundproof?”
“Because I’m about to make you scream and I’d rather not be interrupted.”
The crude promise should have offended her. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in her belly. “You’re awfully confident.”
“I’m motivated,” he corrected, and then his mouth was on her neck, finding that spot that made her knees weak. “Tell me to stop.”
She couldn’t. The word wouldn’t come. Instead, she fisted her hands in his shirt, pulling him closer.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmured against her skin. “You want this as much as I do. You’ve wanted it for weeks.”
“Months,” she corrected without thinking, then gasped as he bit down lightly on her collarbone.
“Months?” He pulled back to look at her, eyes dark with satisfaction. “You’ve wanted me for months?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He kissed her properly then, deep and demanding, his body pressing hers into the wall. She could feel how hard he was, could feel the barely leashed control in the way his hands gripped her waist.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard. Her lipstick was smeared across his mouth, and she had a hysterical urge to laugh at how debauched they both looked.
“Come home with me,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Jordan—”
“I know it’s fast. I know we should probably talk more, figure out what this is. But Christ, Ingrid, I feel like I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. Like every woman before you was just marking time until you showed up with your secretive eyes and your sharp tongue and your hands that make me forget my own name.”
The raw honesty in his voice undid her. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll come home with you. Yes, I want you. Yes to all of it.”
Epilogue: Six Months Later
The ballroom was packed with New York’s elite, all gathered to celebrate the merger of Voss Industries and Temple Enterprises. Ingrid stood at Jordan’s side, wearing a gown that cost more than most people’s cars, watching their families pretend they’d orchestrated this union.
“Your father is taking credit again,” she murmured.
“Let him,” Jordan replied, his hand finding the small of her back. “We both know the truth.”
The truth was that they’d been secretly working together for months, using their combined knowledge to position both companies for a merger that would create the largest luxury conglomerate in the world. The truth was that what had started as explosive chemistry had evolved into something deeper—a partnership of equals who challenged and complemented each other in every way.
“Dance with me,” Jordan said, leading her onto the floor.
As they moved together, Ingrid thought about how far they’d come from that tennis court where she’d knelt to pick up balls for him. Now she knelt for entirely different reasons, in the privacy of their bedroom, where power was something they exchanged freely and with enthusiasm.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, correctly interpreting her smile.
“How I’m going to make you pay for that comment about firing me.”
“I’m counting on it,” he said, spinning her out and back into his arms. “Though technically, it was the best decision I ever made.”
“Firing me?”
“Freeing you,” he corrected. “Freeing us both.”
He was right, of course. In losing her disguise, she’d found herself. In revealing her truth, she’d discovered his—that beneath the arrogant exterior was a man who craved an equal, someone who could match him in ambition, intellect, and appetite.
“I love you,” she said, the words still new enough to thrill.
“I know,” he replied, echoing her earlier confidence. “You have terrible taste.”
She laughed, letting him dip her dramatically. “The worst.”
“Lucky for me,” he murmured, pulling her back up and against him. “Because I love you too, Ingrid Voss. Every complicated, secretive, magnificent inch of you.”
Around them, the party continued—deals being made, alliances being formed, the endless dance of power and privilege. But in their own private universe, Ingrid and Jordan had found something more valuable than any merger or fortune: a partner worthy of the game.
And what a game it would be.
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