A club-branded golf cart dropped her and her plus-one at our feet, then peeled off like a yellow cab.
The man beside her is a press leech. Tabloids, by the look of him—smug expression, mirrored sunglasses, tan like he paid for it. Which he probably did.
“Mind if we ride with you for the next round, Grant?” Corrine asks sweetly, gesturing between her and the bloodsucker before she looks between Dante and me. “I’m sure you two can catch another cart?”
Translation:You two—go fuck off somewhere else.
My smile is all teeth. “Afraid not.”
I loop my arm through Grant’s like we’ve been paired this way from birth. “I’ve been the good-luck charm all day. Boys are up on strokes. Can’t risk shaking up the energy now.”
I toss a look toward one of the other players, a high-ranking city official—flirty, but clean. “Especially since I’ve got ten grand riding on this.”
He chuckles, tipping his hat. “Then here’s hoping they do lose their luck charm. I’m not looking to cough up ten K.”
We move on before she can recover, Dante and Grant flanking me again as we head toward the next tee.
Dante leans in, voice low and silk-smooth against my ear.
“If you keep handling her like that,piccolo, I’m going to need a cold shower before the next hole.”
Grant doesn’t look at him—just keeps his eyes on the path ahead as he mutters under his breath, “Let’s just focus on the game.”
Calm. Controlled. But I hear the edge beneath it.
And I’m not the only one.
Dante chuckles low, clearly entertained.
“Relax,bug, no need to get jealous. I’m only admiring the strategy.”
Grant’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.
I slide a step between them, voice light but firm.
“Boys.”
I give them a look—sharp enough to slice tension but smooth enough to pass for charm.
“You’re both pretty. Now let’s not blow the lead just because our egos can’t share a golf cart.”
That earns a smirk from Dante. Even Grant’s mouth twitches—almost a smile—but he covers it with an eye roll.
And I’ve got my boys back on track.
At least—I did.
Corrine hasn’t shut up since we teed off.
She’s holding court with the press leech like he’s Pulitzer-adjacent, hanging on his every word and throwing out industry gossip like confetti—loud enough to make sure everyone hears her.
I tune her out, redirecting my focus toward the cluster of players I curated for today. The real guests who matter. Every line I drop is intentional—an opening designed to shine a light on Grant and Dante’s strengths, a soft pitch they can knock out of the park.
And they were doing so well. Until now.
Corrine raises her voice again—on purpose, I’m sure.
“Grant’s father,” Corrine says to the reporter with a wistful little smile, “was the true cornerstone of this firm. Tireless. Focused. The kind of man who didn’t need the spotlight—he just built empires quietly while others talked.”
