Shaking my head, I swipe Gray’s flask from him and take a sip. “I have her attention.”
“Do you?” He cocks one eyebrow, but doesn’t prod me further.
“You gonna tee off?”
Gray chuckles, then leans against the cart. “Think I’ll wait until the team in front of us is off the green.”
Rolling my eyes, I find a spot that gives me a decent view of Sutton, then watch as Bumper once again steps up behind her to help her swing.
“This fucking guy.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sutton
For the eleventy-billionth time today, Bobby’s hands slide over my hips, and I think it might be time to put a stop to this. At first, I entertained him, if for no other reason than petty, childish games with Max. Watching him try to remain calm while his former schoolmate put his hands on me was worth the momentary discomfort.
But this is moving right past friendly teaching and getting damn nearcreepterritory.
And there’s a direct correlation between how many cans of beer Bobby has to how much his hands roam during his lessons.
His fingers flex against my hips as he pulls us close, his groin pressed against my bottom. Gritting my teeth, I step forward out of his reach. “I think I’ve got it now, but thank you.”
He doesn’t move.
I raise my eyebrows.
It’s the sixteenth hole, and if I can’t get him to back off now, I have a feeling the brunch that follows this game will be a miserable experience.
“You’ve been so helpful,” I say, hoping he’ll get the point. When he still doesn’t move, I add with emphasis, “Thank you.”
His eyes narrow, but they’re swimming, so it could be that he’s trying to figure me out—or it could be that he’s trying to see me at all. I lost count of how many drinks he’s had, but I stopped counting around fifteen.
“Dad, come on. Let her swing.”
His poor son has been trying to wrangle the man for the last three holes, but after Max’s shot nearly knocked him on thehead, he’s been upping the ante, touching me more blatantly and feeding into the jealous way Max watches us.
It might be flattering if Bobby’s attention had anything to do with me. At this point I think he’s just a jerk who has an axe to grind with a former classmate.
“Bump,” Max calls, striding toward us with obvious intent.
Normally, I wouldn’t appreciate the whole caveman routine, but watching Max stalk toward us right now has the opposite effect. My pulse skips into overdrive.
Maybe it’s the mid-morning heat, but I’m ten degrees hotter with every step he takes forward.
He’s just so broad and big, his short-sleeve polo taut against his massive chest and those thick biceps. The white fabric makes his skin look extra tan today. His thighs—god, I love his thighs—strain against the fabric of his khaki trousers.
I never knew I was a thigh person, but good grief, this man fills out a pair of pants.
“Change of plans.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re in that foursome now.”
Bobby laughs. “Yeah, that’s not how it works.”
“New rule.” Max stops in front of us, then positions himself so I’m partially blocked from Bobby’s view. “You get handsy with the players, you either switch teams or get the fuck off the course.”
I suck in a breath. I’ve never heard his tone so… so forceful.
Protective.
