My eyebrows knit together as I read the text message on my phone. Glancing up at the television screen that’s playing a live feed of Brookes’ round, I watch the camera pan out from where Brookes is currently walking with his head down, shoulders bunched tightly under his dark gray polo shirt.
Me: I was told to stay here.
My task for today was simple. Stay put in the designated tent with all the other VIPs and wait for Brookes to finish, after which I’m to join him like the quintessential golf girlfriend and smile pretty for whatever camera catches us.
Unknown: Yeah, Brookes wants you here. With him.
I gape at the screen, reading the message a few times.
Brookes wants me there. With him. On the course.
I snap my head up, looking around for what I don’t know. Is that even permitted? Am I allowed to be out there on the course? I’m not a golfer. I’m definitely not a caddy.
Me: Max, I don’t think I’m allowed out there.
Unknown: Technically you’re not. But Brookes kind of does what he wants. There’s a cart on its way to you.
Unknown: He said to tell you… Megalodon.
At that, I jump up from my chair because he must really need me. Megalodon. Our safe word from the other night. Brookes is teetering on the edge, and if he needs me to keep him from toppling over, then screw the rules.
Looping my VIP lanyard over my head, I pull on my ball cap and tug my ponytail through to make sure it stays put. Then, tossing back the last few mouthfuls of my Diet Coke, I turn and hurry out of the tent in search of my chauffeur-driven golf cart.
I’m escorted through a sea of golf spectators, the security guard being rather pushy while keeping me tucked close as he shoulders his way through the throng. The rope is lifted and I duck underneath, finding Brookes standing a few feet away with his back to me while he leans on his driver, watching the other guy tee off.
Max spots me first, lifting his chin as I approach him. He taps Brookes on his shoulder, and Brookes turns then, his eyes immediately meeting mine before doing a slow, steady assessment of me from head to toe and back again.
During my time working at Vista Palms, I got a good feel for what the golf girlfriends wear when they’re forced to tag along to watch their guys play, so today, I decided on a white pleatedgolf skirt and a pale pink polo shirt from Brookes’ brand, Big Swing. Judging by the hint of the smile that tugs at Brookes’ lips, he approves of my outfit, and I close the distance between us, feeling awkward as hell with every set of eyes on us.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Are you okay?”
Surprising me, Brookes wraps his arms around my middle, pulling me flush against him, burying his face into my neck with a murmured, “I’m about to kill this fucking guy.”
“Who is he?” I ask quietly, running my hands over the muscular plains of Brookes’ back, feeling him relax a little beneath my touch.
“A fucking asshole.”
We’re interrupted by the loud clearing of a throat, and I pull out of Brookes’ hold to see a marshal standing behind me, holding a white vest with the tournament logo printed across the front. “Ma’am, if you intend on staying on the course, you’ll need to wear this.”
“Don’tma’amher.” Brookes steps in between us. “Her name isPoppy, and she’s mygirlfriend.”
I place a hand on Brookes’ tense forearm, giving him a gentle squeeze. He glances at me and I shake my head just once, silently telling him to calm down.
“I’m sorry,” the marshal says, completely unapologetically. “Poppy, if you intend on staying on the course, you will need to wear this.”
Brookes snatches the vest from the man, and then, unexpectedly, he carefully places it over my head, tying the sides for me before running his hands up my arms and leaning in, pressing a tender kiss to my cheek. My skin feels like it’s on fire, but I try so hard to play it cool, swallowing around the lump of nerves lodged in my throat.
Reaching up, I cup Brookes’ stubbled jaw, staring deep into those crystal-blue eyes, steadying him with a knowing look. “Take a breath. Calm your heart. You’ve got this,” I remind him. “And I am right here.”
“Brookes, you’re up,” Max hisses under his breath from beside me, motioning to the left.
Brookes tears his gaze from mine, looking at the tee where his opponent is grinning at him all smug, his driver resting on his shoulder.
“I didn’t realize it wasladies’hour.” The blond chuckles, his gaze raking up and down my body.
“That explainsyourpresence,” Brookes mutters.
The blond’s smile falls.
