Chapter 34
I wasn’t prepared for this.
Not the ridiculous décor or the aggressively cheerful older man at the counter who handed me a putter with a lightning bolt on the end and called me “kid“. Not even the faded murals of sea creatures painted along the back walls.
What I honestly wasn’t prepared for…was her. In jean shorts and a sundress top, her hair pinned up haphazardly, her eyes bright with amusement, and her lips constantly twitching like she can’t decide whether to tease me or kiss me.
She was already dangerous. Now she’s damn near lethal.
And then it happens.
We’re walking up to hole seven (a windmill monstrosity with mechanical sunflowers swaying side to side like drunks on the way home from the bar). Then she points at an angry–looking taxidermy squirrel in a tiny plastic rowboat floating in the surrounding moat.
“That one’s got your jawline,” she says, smirking “Do you think he’s your long–lost cousin? Lord Squirrelington of the Glower Clan?”
open
my
mouth to give her a sarcastic retort. But instead…I laugh. Out loud. An actual, honest–to–gods, involuntary fucking laugh.
The sound startles me and feels foreign in my throat–it’s sharp, strange, and warm.
Harley freezes, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Oh my God,” she whispers theatrically, “He can laugh. Someone call The Times.
I glance away as my jaw locks up, and a sharp jolt of unease runs down my spine. What the hell was that? Laughter? In public? With people around? No. No, no, no.
This
isn’t me. I don’t laugh. I don’t let down my guard, and certainly not like this. I don’t feel things unless they’re calculated and sharpened into weapons. And I certainly don’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me undone over a stuffed rodent with plastic googly eyes.
But Harley’s already moved on, bounding up to the next tee to take her shot like the moment didn’t just short–circuit my entire nervous system
I watch her from behind as she lines up her putt, the bottom of her sundress top swaying in the light breeze, and her skin glowing in the mid- afternoon sunlight.
She doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to me.
It only gets worse from there, or better, depending on which part of my brain you
She misses her shot at the ninth hole, then turns to me with that raised eyebrow and sassy glint in her eye as she says, “I dare you to do better, Lord Glowerpants.
She doesn’t think I will. And that’s where she miscalculates, monumentally.
I step in behind her, circle my arms slowly around her luscious hips, and slip both of my hands over hers on the putter’s grip.
She stiffens for half a second while half–protesting about my being in her aura.
But when my voice drops, and I say, “I’m helping. You’re clearly struggling, she involuntarily leans back and into me, melding her body against mine as if it as always meant to be there.
And it’s over. It’s game, set, and match.
our ar
I swing our arms smoothly together, and the ball flies in a clean loop and at a perfect angle to land as a hole–in–one.
Her breath catches, and mine does too,
And I feel it–this hum between us. This pull that’s been there since the beginning, but now it’s less of a spark and more of a goddamn current.
1/2
“Effective?” I offer lightly, causing my lips to brush against the shell of her ear. The goosebumps that scatter down her neck awaken an animalistic urge in me that wants to do it again, but this time so that the rest of her skin pebbles all over her body.
She twists around to look at me, her eyes searching mine, and her lips parted slightly, almost invitingly.
e too close. Way too close considering we’re in public, and I can’t devour her right here, right now.
And I have to step back. Because if I don’t, I will lose whatever grip I still have left where she’s concerned.
After the final hole and her glorious defeat, accompanied by my smug grin, we walk toward the small snack kiosk tucked into the corner of the,
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