“Wonderful,” Catherine says. Her tone suggests it is anything but. “Tee time is 10:00 AM sharp at the Country Club. Don't be late. And Dr. Silva? Do try to wear appropriate attire. Collars are mandatory. Polyester is a felony.”
She turns and marches out.
Ten minutes later, I corner him in the Linen Closet on the fourth floor.
“I am so sorry,” I breathe, leaning back against the door. “I panicked. The boat shoes flashed before my eyes.”
“Harrison Vane?” Luke asks, folding a sheet. “Is he really that bad?”
“Luke, he once explained the cultural significance of the polo mallet to me for forty-five minutes. He calls his father ‘Papa.’ He owns a cape. An unironic cape.”
I step closer. The closet is small. He smells like soap and stress.
“I need you to come,” I say. “Please. I need a buffer. If I go alone, she’ll put me in a cart with Harrison and I’ll be engaged by the ninth hole.”
“I don’t golf, Preston,” Luke says, crossing his arms. “I’m from Queens. We play handball. I don’t own plaid pants.”
I flinch. “I’ll buy you the pants. I’ll buy you the clubs. I just… I need you there.”
I hesitate. I look at my shoes—expensive, Italian leather—and then up at him. The snark is gone. I feel vulnerable.
“I want you there,” I say quietly. “Because I like you. And because if I have to walk eighteen holes feeling like the family disappointment, I want someone there who actually… sees me.”
He looks at me with those dark eyes. He sighs. He’s a goner.
“Fine,” he says. “But if there’s a cape involved, I’m driving the golf cart into the pond.”
I pull the Porsche up to the valet stand. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. It is disgusting.
I am wearing lavender. Specifically, lavender linen trousers, a white polo, and a cashmere sweater tied around my neck in a way that screams "My father owns a yacht."
Luke steps out of the car.
He is not wearing lavender.
He is wearing navy chino shorts that hit just above the knee, revealing legs that are… significant. Muscular. Tan. And a crisp white polo shirt that fits him a little too well across the chest. He looks like the pro who gives lessons to bored housewives in romance novels.
I swallow hard.
“You said collars were mandatory,” Luke says, adjusting his sunglasses. “Is this okay? It’s the only polo I have. I usually wear scrubs.”
“It’s terrible,” I lie, my voice strangled. “You look awful. My mother is going to hate how good your calves look. Let’s go.”
We walk to the first tee.
The York family is assembled like a military tribunal in pastel.
Alistair is wearing plaid knickers. Actual, 1920s-style knickers. He is swinging a driver that looks like it was designed by NASA.
“Fore!” Alistair shouts at a squirrel.
“Father,” I say. “This is Dr. Silva.”
Alistair stops swinging. He looks Luke up and down.
“Dr. Silva,” Alistair booms. “Preston tells me you’re an aspiring trauma surgeon. Good hands. Do they translate to the short game? Or are you a slicer? You look like a slicer.”
“I’ve never played, sir,” Luke admits.
