“Just let me put them in water so we can go.”
“No rush.” I follow her into the kitchen. She rummages beneath the sink, pulling out a vase, and adding water before placing the flowers inside.
“They’re so beautiful and my favorite. They remind me—”
“Of Mrs. Winchester’s garden.”
“You remember.” A small tear teeters at the corner of her eye, on the verge of falling.
“How could I forget? It’s where we were when I realized I was in love with you.”
She steps from behind the counter, making her way to me with swift, but graceful movements, until she’s right in front of me. Her arm’s slip around my neck as she rises up on her tiptoes, kissing me deeply. An earthquake could be happening around us and I would be oblivious.
“Mmm,” I moan into her mouth before I break the hold she has over me and pull away. “We need to go so we can be back in time for your curfew. If you’re not and I get in trouble, we both know we’ll never hear the end of Ford’s bitching.”
“Let me get my purse and keys and I’ll put these in my room. My mom’s such a raging dick at the moment she’d probably throw them away out of spite.”
While she’s gone, all I can think about is that in just a couple of months, we will be at college and won’t have to worry about the stress her mother puts on her life. Dylan can finally be happy and carefree.
“Ready?” Her soft, sultry voice cuts through the air, pulling my mind back to the present.
“I am.”
“What are we doing tonight?” She quirks an eyebrow as I let out a laugh. She’s trying to catch me off guard to reveal my plan.
“Nope, you gotta wait, Pickle.”
I slip my hand around her waist and guide her out the door to my car. I open the door and wait for her to sit down, being a gentleman. Dylan gently lifts her legs into the car, giving me a tiny flash of her black underwear. It’s enough to make my cock twitch. I skillfully shift my leg, trying to reposition it.
She talks nonstop during our drive, but I don’t care. I love hearing her voice after spending too many years not having it in my life.
When I pull into the parking lot, I don’t even have to look at her to know her face is lit up with excitement. There are not many cars here, but that’s okay. I guess miniature golf isn’t considered the cool thing anymore, but Dylan and I spent many nights playing it, and I knew it was the perfect place for our first date.
“So, you like it? I was nervous, not sure if you would think it was too childish.”
“It’s perfect. I love it. Now, let's go so I can kick your butt like I used to.”
“We’re awfully confident. I may have been practicing and learned some new skills since the last time we competed against each other,” I state boldly with a smirk.
“Then put those skills where your mouth is.” She takes off at a jog, heading straight for the door, and I fall in step behind her.
When I step inside, Dylan’s already at the counter, in a boisterous conversation with the brunette woman behind the counter. She’s older than us, but not by much, maybe early twenties. I love how carefree Pickle is. She can make friends with anyone, somehow making it seem like they’ve known each other for ages.
I step up beside her, my hand going to the small of her back. I pull out my wallet and hand Juliet, according to her name tag, my bank card.
“Will you be playing eighteen or thirty-six holes?” Juliet asks.
I glance over to Dylan. “You decide.”
She taps her finger on her chin as she focuses her attention on some small, barely noticeable mark only she can see on the wall just past Juliet. “Let’s do thirty-six. I don’t want you to think you didn’t have enough holes to try and beat me.”
“Seems like we have a competition. It’ll be thirty dollars.” I nod to Juliet and she rings it up, swipes my card, then hands it back to me. “Have fun.”
“We will.” After I pick up a putter, Dylan and I head out the door to the first hole. This night is going to be amazing.
We play a few holes, gently ribbing each other about how we’re going to beat the other.
When we reach the sixth hole, there’s a bench and I decide it’s the perfect time to tell her how I feel. “Can we sit for a minute and talk?” My heart’s racing and I have to switch the putter between hands as I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. My thoughts are jumbled as I try to formulate the words to convey my feelings. Let’s just hope my brain and lips are communicating.
