“That’s why I’m asking, gorgeous. Trying to get to know you and all that.”
Her entire expression flips. Suddenly, I’m staring at a beaming smile that I know would burn my skin if I let her close enough. “That’ssosweet. But I actually fucking hate golf.”
“Oh!” I pretend to be flustered as I fidget with my club. “Well, for our next date, I’ll plan something else. Preferably at a venue where I can see your beautiful figure more clearly.”
She swings her club at me, and I stumble back, narrowly avoiding getting hit on the back of the head. My laugh is abrupt as it cuts through the course, drawing a few eyes as I reach for her club and tug it from her.
“Alright. So, what exactly pisses you off with the compliments?”
“I like being complimented. It’s the lame, fake ones that rile me.”
“I can promise you that hitting your date with your club and catching a charge isn’t the best way to respond to them, Bree. Men are simple creatures—dumb, yes—but simple. If you don’t like the sugary compliments, just say that.”
“Because men listen so well?”
“Fair. But if he doesn’t listen, then you shouldn’t waste your time with him in the first place. It doesn’t hurt to make your preferences known instead of swinging first, though.”
“I only swung because it’s you,” she grumbles fleetingly.
“Alright, grab your ball. We’re moving on.”
Once she’s grabbed her ball from the turf, I hand her back her club and lead the way to the second hole. The sound of kids screaming has dulled a bit, which hopefully means they’ve left. It was already late when we arrived, but I guess that doesn’t mean the same thing it did when I was a kid.
“You go first this time,” I tell her once we’ve stopped in front of a miniature, swinging windmill. Pointing to a spot beside me, I add, “Step up here.”
Once she does, I settle behind her and reach around her front to grip the club. Her hands are holding it tight, but when I improve their position, they grow slack. There’s a moment when she locks up, her breath cutting off in surprise, but it doesn’t last long.
“You’re holding it wrong. If your hands aren’t right here, you won’t be able to swing correctly,” I direct her bluntly. When she shoves out a rough exhale and keeps her hands where I just placed them, I shake my head. “No. No, that’sstillwrong.”
My jaw brushes her temple as she bends at the knees and swings the club. I don’t let her. With my grip controlling, I force it to stay in place and lean in closer, plastering us together. The position is more intimate than I was meaning it to be . . . and I freeze.
Aubrey wiggles impatiently and jerks her elbow into my side. “You’re being?—”
“Come on. I’m trying to help you out here. You want to do good this time, right?” I mutter, too aware of the way my breath hits the back of her ear and the plethora of piercings she has there.
“I can figure out how to play minigolf,” she bites out.
The heat from her body seems to cling to me, even as I ease off and give her grip one final adjustment. “I’m just trying to help, honey.”
With a strong shove, she has me taking a wide step back. I run a hand over the back of my neck, finding it damp, before straightening.
“You’re being condescending.”
“Exactly. And I was waiting for you to tell me off, but you didn’t. Why?”
She ignores me and hits the golf ball instead. When it rolls through an opening in the windmill’s swinging blades and sinks into the hole on the other side, she looks at me with a smug twist of her mouth. “Because I knew I could do it myself.”
I snort. “That was a lucky shot.”
“Let’s see you make it, then,” she counters.
“Easy.”
But when I take the shot, my ball bounces off a blade and rolls back down to me. I try again, and it sails through before coming just short of the hole.
“That’s karma,honey.”
I fight off a smirk and head to my ball before picking it up. “Come on. Let’s keep moving.”
