"That wasn't your fault."
She startled. Turned. Surprise, wariness, and then—just for a second—hope, before she shuttered it behind the professional face.
"Grant. Hey." She slipped her phone into her pocket with studied casualness. "Enjoying the tournament?"
"He set you up, Em."
"You don't know that."
"Did he fix your grip?" Grant's hands were at his sides. Still. The kind of still that meant he was keeping them there deliberately. "When he was standing behind you. His hands were on your waist. Did he once correct your elbow? Your stance? Anything that would've actually helped you hit the ball?"
Emmy's mouth opened. Closed.
"Did he warn you about the cameras?"
Nothing.
"Did he move you to a different tee when the influencer started recording? Step in front of the lens? Any of the things you'd do for someone you gave a damn about embarrassing in public?"
Emmy's hand found the hem of her polo and smoothed it flat. Her chin was up. Her eyes were bright and hard—the brightness that meant the next thing out of her mouth would be perfectly composed and absolutely devastating.
But she didn't have an answer. Because the answer to every question was no.
"You like him," Grant said quietly. "And it's blinding you."
Color climbed her neck, her cheeks.
"I don't need you to rescue me." Her voice was steady. Too steady—the steadiness of someone holding very still so they don't shake. "And I don't need you to analyze my feelings. I'm not West's baby sister anymore. I'm not yours to protect."
Grant's jaw worked.
I'm asking if that's the only thing stopping you.
The words were right there. In his mouth. Ready.
He swallowed them.
"Go back to your team," Emmy said. "I'll handle my own mess."
She walked away before he could decide if letting her was the brave choice or the cowardly one.
The parking lot was emptying. The rest of the guys were still inside, probably working the open bar one more time before the shuttle back.
Late afternoon light slanted honey-gold across the asphalt. The air had cooled, carrying the ghost of cigar smoke from the clubhouse patio. Grant was walking toward the team SUV when he heard the voices.
Low. Tense. Coming from behind a row of Range Rovers.
Tyce's voice first—that smooth, practiced tone, except now there was an edge underneath. A crack in the veneer. And then a woman's voice, clipped and furious.
The woman from Emmy's office. Sabine. They'd been introduced once at the gala, briefly, and she'd looked at him like he was taking up space she had better plans for.
Grant paused. The smart thing to do was keep walking. This wasn't his business. Whatever was happening between Tyce Duke and the senior matchmaker from Emmy's office, it had nothing to do with him.
But instinct—or that protective streak he couldn't seem to turn off — made him stop.
"—can't do this here. We agreed—" Tyce's voice, low and urgent.
"Youagreed." Sabine's voice cracked on the word. "I never?—"
