“You wound me, woman,” he chuffs. “For the record, I didn’t say clubbing.” He pauses, presumably for dramatic effect. “I meant golf clubs.”
“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you suggesting golf clubs as a weapon or an instrument of game play?”
His dirty dimple pops with his grin. “You’re safe with me, cookie.”
No. I’m really not.
As the presidentof the Reed Hayes Hate Club, I refuse to say I’m impressed by his date choice. Even if Imightbe. He shall receive no accolades from me.
Reed opens his arms wide, palms to the ceiling. “Well? What do you think?”
Based on the smug look on his face, he doesn’t need me to answer, which works perfectly for me.
I repeat: No accolades.
Instead, I pretend to be mildly amused. “This is most definitely not putt-putt.”
He rubs his palms together, flashing his eyes like a diabolical madman. Fitting. “We’re not kids anymore, Lila. We’ve graduated to contests requiring more skill than putt-putt. Beating you at a child’s game won’t give me the satisfaction it once did.”
I visibly cringe, sucking in a hiss of air through my teeth. “I figured out why you’re still single if that’s the satisfaction you’re seeking on dates.”
To mock me like a child would—also fitting—he screws his mouth up to expose his teeth and throws his voice. “I know why you’re single. Blah, blah, blah.”
A snort-laugh escapes me. What can I say? I have terrible taste in dating partners. A grown man acting like a fool is sort of my jam. Especially when he’s normally uptight and gruff.
I flick my wrist, waving my hand in a show of surrender. “Fine. Let’s do this.”
Wearing a far too wide grin, he throws an arm around my shoulder and leads me to the reception counter. I hold my breath to avoid catching a whiff of his sexy scent. Learned that lesson in the car, and my panties have the wet spot to prove it.
He puts his mouth far too close to my ear and says, “I’m paying, so don’t give me any shit about it.”
My feminism longs to object, but I’m still petty about the whole broken heart thing. I shrug and count the seconds until I can take a breath without sucking him into my body via my nostrils.
Once he releases me to pay, Ifinallyinhale and look around the facility. That is, as soon as the spots leave my field of vision due to prolonged oxygen deprivation.
Although he’ll never hear it from me, Reed seems to have picked a cool place. I’m looking forward to this, and it’d be great if that didn’t get back to the rest of the Reed Hayes Hate Club members.
He’s brought me to a place calledGrip it and sip it. Rather than chasing a ball around a course like I assumed we’d be doing, we’ll be sending balls careening into an enormous driving range from the comfort of a covered alcove. And it seems booze may be involved.
The cashier smiles at us warmly while giving Reed the receipt. “You’ll be in bay thirty-one. Third floor. Stairs are by the bar.”
Third floor?
Gulp.
My palms start sweating almost instantly.
While slipping the receipt into his billfold, Reed glances at me. I can’t speak with my attention squarely on visions of me careening off the third-floor ledge or vomiting all over the golf tee.
Addressing the cashier, Reed says, “Sorry, I didn’t ask for this earlier, but are there any first-floor spaces open?”
Either he noticed my reaction, or he somehow knows about my phobia and wants me to be comfortable. Neither of those things aligns with my view of him as a selfish donkey, which causes a single hummingbird to flutter in my belly. Just one.
I willnotfall in love with Reed Hayes.
The cashier nods animatedly, his smile widening. “Absolutely.”
“Thank you,” I grit out, narrowly avoiding a squeak. An exhale audibly leaves me because I’m nothing if not composed.
