“I’m handling it,” I muttered. “It’s been weeks since I’ve heard anything, and?—”
A loud pop cut through the air as Brooks teed off. His ball sailed past mine, landing just to the left. He frowned, but not at the shot—his eyes were on the clubhouse.
A group of people—six, maybe eight—stood near the entrance, phones out, cameras pointed directly at us.
My stomach twisted. “Are they taking pictures?”
Fiona sighed, unbothered, and took a long sip of beer. “Day in the life of a professional athlete.”
“That’s so intrusive.” I grimaced, shuddering at the thought of random strangers documenting my worst golf swings for the internet, giving away my location on top of that.
Brooks, however, wasn’t looking at the cameras anymore. He was looking at me. And he wasn’t smiling anymore.
He stepped in close, effectively blocking the entire rest of the world from my view.
“How is your brother bothering you? What did she mean?”
My blood ran cold.
Shit.
I forced a laugh, waved my hand like it was nothing. “Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”
His voice had changed. No teasing, no amusement. Just concern. A deep, quiet concern that made my chest ache. “What did Fiona mean by it?”
I hated this. Hated how he still knew me, still picked up on things I didn’t want to talk about, still looked at me like he actually cared.
And I hated that some small, weak part of me wanted to tell him. I was sick of being alone all the time, but it was safest. Easier. Instead, I gripped my club tighter, stared at the fairway, and said, “Brooks, drop it.”
“No. Please.”
It was the gentle, nudging please that had me forget why I never shared my personal life with anyone. The words flowed out.
“He stops by for money sometimes. On a good day, I’ll give him some. On a bad day, he pounds on my door when I pretend to not be home.” I shrugged, not quite telling him the full truth, and patted his shoulder. “I handle it just fine. I’m used to it, alright?”
He grunted a response and slid into our shared golf cart but made no moves to keep to his side. His large thigh pressed against mine, warming me, and I got another wave of butterflies. I knew what it felt like to have those strong thighs hold me up against a wall when he pounded into me.Shit.I gulped, suddenly quite hot and turned on despite the chilly temperatures.
“Your cheeks have a little blush on them, Mitch. What’s on your mind?” he asked in a deliciously low tone.
“Golf. I’m planning what club to use next.”
“Sure. It’s normal to blush fire red when thinking about golfing.”
“With all the wood and strokes, it’s easy to,” I replied, not caring that I was flirting with a man I needed to stay away from. A man that already knew too much. His eyes heated at my response, and I stepped on the pedal to propel us down the fairway. The wind picked up and cooled down my increasing and unwanted libido.
Brooks kept his distance for the next three holes, and for that, I was thankful. We rode in silence and had no more accidental touches or innuendos or flirting. Fiona and Gideon played like shit and laughed about it, whereas Brooks and I had an unspoken competition going on. He was one stroke ahead of me, and regardless of the prize, I wanted to win.
“Shit, they’re getting closer, aren’t they?” Fiona asked, pointing at the group that was growing in size. It looked to be about ten women now, not-so-casually sneaking up on our foursome. I blinked in annoyance. There were rules for golf, and people breaking the only-four-or-fewer-to-a-group rule was my biggest pet peeve. There was no possible way for them to catch up to us playing with that many.
So they weren’t playing for real and were hoping for photos of Gideon or Brooks. Hell, maybe both.
“We can skip a hole?” I offered, seeing Brooks frown in the crowd’s direction. “Or would you prefer to do another interview?”
His jaw tightened for a second before he smiled. “Watching me on TV, huh?”
“Never.”
