“Liar,” Clay said cheerfully. “So listen, I’ve got a great opportunity for you—”
“No thanks,” Harrison said before Clay could hit him up. He didn’t like to hear about great opportunities when he was feeling sorry for himself. It completely messed with the self-pity vibe. “Now is not a good time.”
“Just hear me out, big guy,” Clay said, although Harrison was not a particularly big guy. “I’ve got a golf clinic lined up with some bigwig oil guys in Scotland. They are willing to pay a lot of dough for someone like you to look at their swing for a couple of days. You know the drill.”
Harrison did indeed know the drill—he’d done paid appearances before, where he told middle-aged men that they had a great swing andmaybe watch that shoulder rotation. His advice was probably not going to change their game, but it made them happy. Those opportunities were a dime a dozen. But opportunities that came with “a lot of dough” were a different story. “When?”
“You’d need to be in Scotland right after Christmas.”
“So soon? How long is the clinic?”
“A week. And seriously?” Clay asked. “You’ve got time. You’ve got nothing but time. Wait—don’t tell me that suddenly you have plans.”
“No,” Harrison said, “but—”
“Just keep doing the knee stuff,” Clay said. “You’ll be good to go by then, trust me.”
“You don’t know if that’s true.”
“Sure I do. Take a couple of days and think about it. But no more than that.”
Sometimes, Harrison didn’t like how Clay pushed him. “Fine,” he said stiffly. He didn’t like it, but he needed it.
“Great! I’ll give you a call in a couple of days,” Clay said. “Okay, gotta bounce. My girlfriend is walking toward a jewelry store and I gotta nip that in the bud.” He clicked off before Harrison could respond.
A clinic in Scotland in the dead of winter. Sounded like something Clay would dredge up during the offseason. And, he realized, he’d failed to ask just how big the bucks were for this one.
He picked up the second pastry out of sheer boredom, but hadn’t even taken a bite when he heard a commotion in the house—the slamming of a door, the sound of quick footsteps. And then Amy sort of erupted into the dining room, donut in hand, apparently swiped from the kitchen bar on her way. “We have a problem,” she announced before taking a bite.
“We do?” He put down the pastry.
“A big winter storm is coming.”
He gave her half a smile. “I thought you didn’t believe a big winter storm was coming.”
“I still don’t. But I heard the forecast, and what if it’s true? I’m already freezing. And these donuts won’t last forever. Come on, we gotta go.”
“Go? Go where?” he asked, confused.
“To get provisions before they have picked the shelves clean! What if the power goes out? You know how this state likes to run out of energy in the winter.”
“How the state…what?”
She did not explain. “Are you coming?”
Of course he was—he wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. “Should I bring the pastries?”
Amy hesitated. Then shook her head. “We might not have room.” She hurried out.
“We might not have space for pastries?” he asked the empty space where she’d been standing.
A few minutes later, he found her at the front door, a giant tote bag over one shoulder, and Duchess tucked up under the other arm.
“I’ll put your bag in the trunk,” he offered.
“That’s okay. There’s room in my minivan.”
Harrison looked past her to where the van was sitting in the drive.
