"West's sister," Boozy repeated mildly. "Right."
Grant closed his eyes. Breathed.
This was going to be a long day.
The Elite Connections sponsored hole was on the back nine, near one of those artificial waterfalls that every country club seemed contractually obligated to install.
A crowd had gathered for the "celebrity challenge"—each sponsor got a representative to take a ceremonial shot, photo op, harmless fun. Grant had done a dozen of these over the years.Smile, swing, don't hit anyone, collect applause regardless of result. The bar was literally on the ground. You just had to not commit manslaughter.
He hadn't planned to watch. Had told himself he'd check in with his playing partners, grab a water, keep moving.
But Emmy was standing at the tee, and she looked like she was calculating escape routes with the intensity of someone planning a prison break.
Grant drifted closer. Close enough to hear, not close enough to help.
"I really think Sabine should do this," Emmy was saying to someone from the event staff, her voice pitched in that register of desperate reasonableness. "She's actually coordinated. I'm more of a... strategic advisor. A behind-the-scenes person. I advise. Strategically. From behind the scenes."
The event coordinator—a harried woman in a visor who looked like she'd already handled seventeen crises today and was not in the mood for an eighteenth—shook her head. "Ms. Greer isn't available. You're listed as the Elite Connections representative."
"But—"
"It's just one swing, honey. For the kids."
For the kids. The ultimate rhetorical checkmate. Grant watched Emmy's face cycle through several stages of grief before landing on grim acceptance.
"Nonsense." Tyce appeared at her elbow, all white teeth and easy confidence. "You'll be great."
"Tyce, I'm serious." Emmy's voice dropped, but Grant was close enough to catch every word. "I haven't held a golf club since Kenzie Peterschmidt's bachelorette party. I was so hungover I threw up on the windmill and it sprayed everyone on the fourth hole. They banned me from the premises. There's a photo of my face behind the register."
Tyce laughed—delighted, like she'd told him a charming anecdote instead of a warning. "God, that's fantastic. Can you imagine if that happened here?" He was already steering her toward the tee, hand on her lower back with the easy possessiveness of someone who'd never been told no in his life. "Come on. You're overthinking it."
Emmy's jaw tightened—a half-second, barely visible—and then the social face clicked back on. She glanced around, looking for an ally, an excuse, a way out.
Her eyes found Grant's across the green.
He saw it. The silent plea.Help me.
Grant took a step forward.
Emmy's eyes widened. She gave her head a tiny shake—barely perceptible—and turned back to Tyce with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Fine. One swing. But when this goes viral for all the wrong reasons, I'm blaming you."
Tyce laughed, already positioning himself behind her, hands on her waist, playing to the crowd. "That's the spirit, beautiful."
Grant's hands curled at his sides. He had no reason to intervene. No right to. She'd made that clear with one tiny shake of her head.
What was he going to do—shove Tyce aside? On what grounds? He was West's friend. Emmy's childhood neighbor. He had no claim on her and no excuse except the twist in his gut every time Tyce touched her, and that wasn't something he could say out loud.
So he watched.
A tournament photographer had materialized, camera up. Two women in the gathered crowd had their phones out, recording. The Lululemon influencer from earlier was positioning herself for a reaction shot, angled to catch maximum drama.
Tyce was murmuring something in Emmy's ear—flirtatious, performative. His hands were on her waist instead of correcting her elbow position. The grip was wrong. Her stance was wrong. Grant's whole body went tight.
Emmy's shoulders were rigid. She knew this was going to go badly.
She swung anyway. Because Tyce had made it impossible to back out without looking like a killjoy, and Emmy Woodhouse would rather publicly humiliate herself than be accused of not being fun.
The ball sliced hard right.
