Eventually, I found myself at the mini golf lot, ten minutes early. Old habits die hard. In the Marine Corps, you’re taught that you’re either early or late, nothing in between.
I leaned against the fence, watching families chase kids with ice cream cones, a couple arguing quietly near the ticket stand. It was all background noise until I saw her walking toward me.
She was shorter than I expected, her curves soft, her hair a wild swirl of brown curls framing her face. Her jeans fit like they were made just for her, hugging each curve of her body. She paired her jeans with a loose-fitting top that moved as she did. Her presence was genuine and warm, and it knocked the air out of me for a second.
“Camille?” I asked, even though I already knew it was her.
She gave me a small, almost shy smile, eyes flicking up and down, telling me she wasn’t sure if I was real yet.
“Hunter.” Her voice was soft. Reserved.
When I leaned in for a quick hug, her scent hit me first.Vanilla, with a trace of rose and jasmine that lingered just long enough to mess with my head. She fit perfectly in my arms, like that’s where she’d always been meant to be.
It was her. Completely, undeniably her.
When I pulled back, she was hesitant, as if she was still sizing me up. I offered a grin, trying to lighten the weight in the air. “Still disappointed that I catfished you?”
That earned me a surprised laugh, and I filed the sound away immediately. I needed to hear that again.
We grabbed our putters, hers neon pink, mine neon green, and headed to the first hole. I could tell she was nervous. She chewed on her lip when she thought I wasn’t looking, kept her eyes down a little longer than most people do. But underneath all that, there was something steady in her. She might not have realized it, but I could tell she wasn’t the type to break easily.
“Alright,” I said, lining up my ball. “Before we start, ground rules: I don’t let people win. You’ve got to earn it.” I should have probably done the chivalrous thing and let her win. I’ve been told I can be too competitive sometimes, but something told me she could handle it.
She arched her brow. “Wow. Straight to intimidation. Bold.”
“Not intimidation. Just being straight with you. You want fake? Wrong guy.”
Her lips twitched. “Noted. But if I lose, I’m blaming the putter.”
“Of course,” I said, deadpan. “Always blame the gear.” She laughed again, softer, and it left me with a feeling I couldn’t name.
When she took her first shot, the ball ricocheted off thewindmill and bounced straight into the little fake stream running along the side. She froze, then groaned. “Oh my Gosh. That did not just happen.”
I bit my cheek, trying not to laugh. And failed. “Don’t worry, rookie mistake. Happens to the best.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered as I fished the ball out for her.
“I’m a simple guy,” I shrugged. “Good food, cold beer, and watching my date try to kill golf balls.”
She shot me a look, equal parts glare and amusement. “Careful. I might take you down with this putter.”
“Noted. Mental checklist: don’t anger the five-two woman with a weaponized mini golf stick.”
Her smile widened, spark in her eyes. That right there was worth every bad date and lonely night. As we played, she relaxed. Banter clicked into place. I teased, and she fired back. Quietly competitive; she pretended not to care, but the little fist pump when she sank a shot said otherwise.
The game went like that: her groaning at wild shots, me teasing, her firing back. Grass and flowers in the air, background noise from other players. Somewhere between the bad shots and the laughter, she loosened up. And me? I couldn’t stop watching her. Not just her curves or her curls, but the way she carried herself. Like she’d built her walls high, but underneath, she wanted someone to try climbing them.
“So I guess we gotta lie and tell your kids you won?” I asked playfully.
She snorted. “Please. Like my kids would ever believe that.”
“Smart kids,” I said with a grin. Her laughter rang out again, and damn if something didn’t shift in me. I found myselflaughing alongside her. It’s been a long time since I let myself think about forever. But watching her brush curls from her eyes and roll them at my bad jokes, I realized something I hadn’t expected.
Forever didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a shot I might actually want to take.
ChapterFive
Camille
