“No,” Izzy says, crossing her arms and shooting daggers at me. I didn’t think I was a fan of collared tank tops on women, but the pose is doing good things for Izzy.
“I can sit onyourlap,” I offer, trying to rein in the shit-eating grin spreading across my face.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Izzy says on a huff. “Just sit your ass down.”
I slide into the seat beside the high schooler before turning to Izzy and patting my knee. “Your chariot awaits, madam.”
“I’m going to murder Carter,” Izzy says as she carefully climbs into the cart and sits on my right leg. She’s barely touching me.
“Are you squatting?” I ask.
“No—” Izzy starts but is thrown forward when the girl starts reversing out of the spot.
I reach out, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back into me.
“I got you,” I say.
Izzy scoots forward so she isn’t quite as close, the movement bringing her ass in direct contact with my dick. The one that got a bit excited by the close proximity.
I let out a small grunt just as Izzy releases an “eep!” sound.
Our driver looks over at us as she starts to navigate the two-track dirt road that will take us to our tee box, and Izzy waves a hand in a shooing motion. “Did that bee sting you, Jaxon?”
I almost burst out laughing, but instead, follow her lead. “Yeah. Not too bad though.”
Wait. Can beestings be in varying degrees of badness? Is it just stung or not stung? Izzy is apparently thinking something along those same lines because her face is pulling in a frown.
“I mean, it’s probably just that I have such big…” I trail off suggestively. “…muscles.”
Izzy whacks my chest, and I laugh.
“You’re a menace, Jaxon Reid.”
“Pots and kettles and all that, Izzy,” I respond, tightening my arm around her waist just slightly. She huffs before shoving me away.
We get to the tee box and meet the two men who will be rounding out our foursome, something I hadn’t realized before asking if we were at the wrong hole. Turns out, I should’ve listened to the guy giving instructions instead of staring at Izzy.
“Hey,” I say, as we walk up to the two men.
“Holy shit,” one of them replies. “You’re Jaxon Steele.”
Izzy snickers, but I give her a playful shove and nod. “Guilty.”
“Oh man, I’m a huge fan. I was at your final concert last year.”
I should’ve guessed they were from New York from the finance-bro vibes they’re both giving off.
We chat briefly about what brought them to Wild Bluffs—really wanted to play the course, and the charity thing was the only way they could figure out how to—before Izzy looks at her watch and declares it time to start.
“Can we get a quick picture first, Jaxon?” the blonder of the two men, Keith, asks.
“Jessica, can you take it?” the other guy, Marty, asks, extending his phone to Izzy.
“I’ve got it,” I say, stretching my arm in front of us and snapping the photo, not even caring if they were ready or not. “And her name is Isabel.”
Marty chuckles. “Right, Isabel. I dated a girl named Isabel once. She was…well, probably about ten years younger than you.”
“How…special,” Izzy says, and it takes all my control not to laugh.
