Brookes clears his throat and he shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “You… you look really… pretty tonight.”
An overwhelming warmth creeps up from my chest, my neck, and onto my cheeks, even the tips of my ears go hot. I’m thankful for the dim light so as not to give myself away. And, with a tight, totally awkward smile that probably looks goofy as hell, all I can do is say, “Thanks,” before turning and hopping out of this car so damn fast, I think I hear the seam of my dress tear in my haste because what the hell just happened?
CHAPTER 17
BROOKES
Poppy: I just got to the hotel.
Idon’t miss the way the tension in my shoulders seems to subside the second I see Poppy’s message flash up on my phone. I flew into Tulsa yesterday. The day was spent smiling for photographs I didn’t want taken, being grilled by assholes posing as reporters in back-to-back press conferences asking me the same damn question over and over again, hoping for a different answer each time.
“Brookes, how are you feeling after Hilton Head? Did you take some time to reflect after your last performance?”
I’m not sure what they were expecting from me. It was a goddamn press conference, for chrissake.Yes, I fucked up. I shouldn’t have snapped that nine iron in half. And, no, I wasn’t aware there was a goddamn nine-year-old kid standing behind me when I called the ball a cunt. Donald Spielman and the AGL would have my ass kicked off the tour so damn fast my head would be spinning.
Today, I battled through the first round and sucked, finishing on a dismal seventy-two and facing even more grilling by thereporters. And now, here I am, trapped in the presidential dining room at the Tulsa Hills Country Club, forced to spend my evening with men I can’t stand for this stupid-assLegend’s Dinner,which is really just a sorry excuse for a pissing competition of golf’s most intolerable players, with a side of over-cooked steak.
Poppy stayed back in Florida, but I know she was scared to fly out here. At twenty-three, she’s apparently only ever been on a plane three times in her life because she hates flying, so I kind of felt bad having her travel alone. I’ve been checking her flight schedule all afternoon.
We haven’t really seen much of one another since the children’s hospital charity gala due to my rigorous practice schedule, but we’ve been talking more and more, usually by text. And I’ve never been a big texter, but I have to admit, with Poppy, it’s kind of fun.
Me: How was the flight?
Poppy: Apart from the three times the plane almost dropped right out of the sky, it was fine.
I laugh to myself.
Me: It’s just turbulence.
Poppy: That’s what the man next to me kept promising. But I’m sure that’s just some made up thing people say to try to make themselves feel better before plummeting twenty-thousand feet to their death.
Me: As a physics major, I tend to disagree, but go off I guess.
Poppy: You were a physics major?
Me: I’m not just a pretty face, Pops.
Poppy:
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Brookes Devereaux.”
I snap my head up from my phone to see the bane of my existence, my biggest rival on and off the course, Jackson Taylor, standing there, smirking at me. When my gaze dips down to the lowball of amber liquor held in his hand, the smug asshole lifts it to his mouth, dropping it back in one go and smacking his lips to savor the taste.
Fuck, I hate this guy. He’s had a problem with me ever since I fucked his now wife. In my defense, I was wasted, plus I had no idea she was his girlfriend at the time. She sure as shit never said a damn thing to me.
“Jackson.” I nod, averting my eyes and, instead, looking out over the sea of pro golfers filling the room.
“Didn’t expect to seeyouhere after today’s effort,” Jackson says with a low chuckle. “I’m surprised you were even invited after the display you put on at Hilton Head…”
I slide my gaze to meet his. “I’m just here to reclaim my spot at the top.”
He laughs. “Well, you’ll have to get pastmefirst.”
Rubbing my chin, I look up at the beams in the ceiling in mock thought. “Last I checked you were, what? Bouncing between eight and nine.”
Jackson narrows one eye to a slit, his grip around the glass tightening enough to stretch his knuckles white. “Better than thirty-two,” he retorts through gritted teeth.
“I like a challenge.” I shrug a shoulder, acting as unbothered as I possibly can, because for guys like Jackson Taylor, that only pisses them off more.
