My father looked over at Wyndi. “I see you have your own clubs. You a serious golfer, Wyndi?”
She grinned. “I can hold my own, Mr. Israel. I’ve been golfing since I started high school. I do okay.”
He smiled at her. “Good. Good. Because like I said, I want to make some noise today.”
After registration, a continental breakfast (which Wyndi and I skipped), and some quick practice putts and strokes, my dad and I loaded up the golf bags. We climbed into the golf cart and headed for the 10thhole.
There were eighteen teams of four people each in the tournament. Each team started at their own hole, then made their way around the golf course, making sure to hit all eighteen holes. Once we heard the shotgun blast that indicated the start of the tournament, Shiloh, who was up first, selected her club.
We put Wyndi in second, since we weren’t sure of her skills. But it was obvious by the 12thhole that we could’ve made her the anchor. She was cleaning up.
As we walked from the golf cart to the 13thhole, I grabbed her hand to slow her down.
“Say, I’m trying real hard to be a gentleman and shit. Like, not to see for myself exactly how soft the skin on your thigh is. Why you keep bending over in front of me like that?”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh my goodness, Kaynaan. That’s the game, sir. I have to bend over to line up the shot, . . . to pick up my ball . . .” She let her thoughts trail off.
“Yeah, but why you always gotta toot your ass in my face to do it?”
She shoved my shoulder. “Stop talking to me.” She started to walk away, her ass making the skirt that covered the shorts underneath sway.
“Daddy, I think Kaynaan’s being fresh with his friend,” Shiloh sung in a tattling voice.
“Is it gonna mess with her game? Because otherwise, I don’t care. I just want her to keep playing like she’s playing.”
“Wow, Mr. Israel.” Wyndi laughed.
He laughed, too.
We finished the round, headed for the clubhouse, and tallied everything up before handing our scorecards over to the officials. Of our foursome, Wyndi shot the best on eight of the eighteen holes. I shot the best on four. My father shot the best on six, and Shiloh was just there for the vibes.
My father and Shiloh drifted away from Wyndi and me to network. I would’ve done the same if she wasn’t with me. But after watching her in her athletic bag all day, all I really wanted to do was be pressed up on her. She was so fucking fine and so damn sexy. I liked that she had a softness about her but that she was tough as nails with a competitive spirit.
We grabbed a few hors d’oeuvres and some bottled water, then headed to a high-top table that was situated sort of away from the crowd. There weren’t any chairs at that particular table, so we stood—eating and people watching.
“This was so fun,” she commented before taking a bite of the mini turkey and cheese hoagie she’d selected from the platter. “It was cool to see the way the sponsors decorated their holes and represented their businesses.”
“You just liked beating us.” I took a sip of cold water.
She batted her pretty brown eyes. “That was actually an added bonus.”
We laughed together.
“You think we won any of the holes?” she questioned.
Every hole at the tournament came with a prize attached to it, for the golfer who’d played it the best. Some prizes were bigger and more luxurious than others, but none of the prizes were slouches.
“The way you played? Especially with that hole in one on the 7th? I’m pretty sure you won a hole. And if you didn’t, there’s a silent auction, too. If you see something you like, we can bid on it.”
“We? You talkin’ French now?”
I cracked up. This woman was hilarious. I liked her sassiness. I held my hands up in surrender. “I’m not trying to infringe, Brown Eyes. I was just saying, you’re my guest, and this is a date. Whatever it is you want this weekend, just point. It’s on me.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
I eyed her back. “Not on no creep shit, Brown Eyes. I’m not trying to buy the pussy or anything like that. Like I said, this is a date. I invited you, and you graciously agreed to come. I’m paying, . . . unless you say otherwise.”
Her facial muscles relaxed, and a genuine smile bloomed on her face. “Thanks, Kaynaan. That’s very . . . 1990s of you. This is like an old school date, where a guy invites you out and knows that the expectation is for him to pay.”
