“I didn’t realize you were the clothes police.” She snorts, taking the opportunity to look me up and down.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Wear the fucking dress. But if I get kicked off the tour for breaking some asshole’s nose tonight, then that’s on you, Pops. C’mon. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 27
POPPY
Igrin down at my phone, giddy as I tap out my message to Lori.
Me: The dress worked.
Lori: Of course it did, hon. He is just a boy after all.
Me: The way he’s been looking at me all night… I think I might be in trouble.
Lori: The best kinda trouble to be in, baby
Shaking my head at her words, I tuck my phone into my purse and I check my reflection in the mirror of the ladies’ powder room. I smooth a hand down over my pin-straight hair, momentarily wondering who this woman is staring back at me.
I never imagined I wouldeverbe this… brazen. This is the first time in forever that I’ve ever wanted something—someone. And I’m nervous and excited and more than a little scared, but I don’t hate it like I always thought I would. It’s like this whirlwindof conflicting emotions that twist and spin in my chest; for the first time in my life, it’s as if I’m finally alive.
Turns out Lori Jones is a mastermind when it comes to men. I’m in awe of her. When she concocted this whole plan, I wasn’t sure to begin with. I mean, calling the hotel and posing as Brookes’ assistant to switch the reservation from two bedrooms to one? Diabolical. It was so hard to keep a straight face while watching Brookes try not to lose his cool with the poor, innocent check-in attendant. He’s vowed to sleep on the couch, but when he sees the pathetic excuse for pajamas that I brought to wear tonight… we’ll see how long he lasts on the couch.
As I snake my way back out through the party, I spot Brookes across the way, over on the far end of the lawn, talking to Max and two other men who look like they fit the bill of professional golfers. You can spot a golfer a mile away. Clean cut. Tan skin. PR-approved smiles. There’s just something about them. Brookes is definitely the odd one out with his permanently stubbled jaw, tattoos, and the way he never tries too hard to impress anyone, the way he never looks impressed at all. In a throng of professional golfers, it’s easy to see why Brookes Devereaux has been labeled the bad boy of golf.
“Poppy, right?”
Flinching at the feel of an unwelcomed hand on my arm, I spin around a little too quickly, suddenly dizzy. It takes a moment, but when I come to, I’m caught off guard by the man who was paired up with Brookes on Friday in Oklahoma. Jackson something or other. He smiles down at me, his dark eyes lingering a little too long at the dip in my neckline, and I lift a hand, toying with the charm on my necklace while purposely covering my cleavage.
“Jackson Taylor,” he introduces himself, holding a hand out. “We met briefly in Tulsa.”
I look down at his hand hanging in the air between us, hesitating before reluctantly shaking it. It’s soft. A little too soft, in my opinion. I’m not against men who take care of themselves inthe slightest, but this guy’s a professional golfer; they’re supposed to have calloused, rough fingers. It’s par for the course, pun intended.
“Hello,” is all I say, keeping my voice airy, my smile generic.
“Having a nice evening?” Jackson asks, taking a sip from the glass of amber liquor in his hand, watching me intently over the rim. And it’s then I notice the shiny gold ring on his finger. His ring finger, specifically.
“Yes.” I nod.
“It’s nice that you follow Brookes around. You’re like a loyal puppy dog,” Jackson continues with a light, humorless chuckle, gazing out over the party. “My wife is not as devoted, sadly.”
I say nothing, just offer him another small, blatantly forced smile.
“How long have you and Brookes been together?” Jackson asks casually, which is all kinds of weird if you ask me. I don’t even know this man.
“Not long.” I shrug a shoulder. “But we’ve known each other for a while.”
“You were a…cart girl, right?” He offers a knowing smirk.
“Yes.” I nod again, keeping my tone level. I know he’s trying to goad me. I can tell by the smirk and the derisive lilt. But I’m not biting. This guy’s clearly a dick.
“Funny how that happens.” He chuckles again.
I cock my head to the side, studying him. “How so?”
“Just… cart girls and golfers…” He winks as he says, “I’ve heard the stories.”
At that, my polite smile falls because I know exactly what this asshole is insinuating. And how. Fucking. Dare he.
