“Or we could start and finish,” I quickly noted.
“We are not rushing out of here,” Sella said through gritted teeth as four very tan, extremely in-shape, hot-as-fuck golfers strode by to the couches next to us.
“Ladies,” a dark-haired one said, taking off his Titleist ball cap and nodding.
They went to their area, where I noticed their clubs were set up in fancy golf bags and not in the plastic dispenser like us. We were regular folk, playing a game, and these dudes needed specialty clubs in exclusive bags to play. Apparently.
The guys got busy, yanking a few clubs out and swinging over the green below.
Sella ordered two glasses of prosecco and then, as predicted, went in for the kill. “Heyyy, do you think you can show me how to swing this?” She stood there, looking sexy in a sundress and Puma sneakers, holding a lone club in front of her, her cleavage bunched up.
Her phone pinged on the table in front of me and I caught the alert. It said the others were stuck at work and were not going to make it.Shit.
I looked up to tell Sella, but she was already getting a golf lesson from Mr. Tall & Dark in the Titleist hat.
“What about you? You know how to play?” A deep, yet melodic, accented voice came at me from the side.
I was grateful for the cascade of curls twirling across my cheek, hiding my emotions at being spoken to first…for once…instead of Sella. I loved her, but she willfully commanded a room, and most of the time I was happy with the arrangement. But at the end of the day I was still just a girl, wanting attention. From a guy? I didn’t know what.
Looking up, I found myself staring at a head full of messy blondish waves, deep green eyes dewy like the wet forest, and a very nice chest (at least I imagined so) behind a white polo. He held his hat in his hand and leaned his other palm on my table.
“I don’t know. I’ve been here once before and hit the ball one hundred and forty yards.”
He nodded and smiled. “Beginner’s luck,” he noted.
By his smirk, I understood that wasn’t very good at all. “I take it that’s not so great?” Realizing my awful date from that ill-matched evening had lied to me, I tilted my head away from Mr. Green Eyes.
“I could show you.” He didn’t get the clue and persisted. I’d give him that.
“I’m only here for the dogs.” Despite being book smart, no one ever said I was witty.
“Me too.”
I happened to turn my head at the most perfect moment and catch this golfer guy winking at me.
“Daniel,” he said with authority, holding out his hand for me to shake. “Daniel Campbell. My friends call me Danny, so that works too.”
“Wren,” I said while slipping my hand inside his.
“Like the bird?”
“Yes.”
“I know, probably not an original question, but an original name for sure,” he followed with.
“Dad’s Latin and Italian, Mom’s Jewish. She wanted Rebecca. He wanted Angelina. Somehow they decided on Wren because they met on…wait for it…Wren Way. Now neither culture overshadows the other. I’m as American as apple pie until you get to my last name. Bianchi. Then you know you’re dealing with firepower.” I gave my spiel effortlessly. Anyone getting involved with me should know who they were dealing with. Sarcastic, sometimes caustic, and often too snarky for my own good—Wren. My name certainly didn’t match my demeanor.
My neck got hot, and I felt Sella’s eyes on me. She might have been pretending to swing clubs, but she was waiting for me tobat my eyelashes or give some sort of innate mating signal to the cute guy. Wasn’t going to happen though. I stood and made my way to the area with the clubs—grabbing a three wood or whatever they called it—and went to the putting platform and cracked the ball.
It barely fell off the platform and landed on the green just below our bay area.
“So much for a hundred and forty. Here, let me help. Are you mairrit to this club?” asked Daniel, Danny, or whatever he wanted to be called.
“I have no idea what you just asked me.”
“Mairrit, you know committed, like a wedding?”
“Oh, married.”
