She looked smug for a girl who had barely hit half of her shots straight. “I do, why? Afraid you’re going to lose?”
I shook my head, fighting back a grin. “You’re on, Press Girl. Let’s see what you got.”
Becca practically sprinted to the empty counter like she had something to prove. She grabbed a putter from the bucket and held it out. “See, I know which club to use this time.”
“Good job. I’m proud of you,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. I wasn’t sure if she knew it or not, but the only difference between the clubs was the length and grip colors.
She rolled her eyes but smiled as she stepped up to the first hole with a serious expression on her face. She pushed her tongue out between her lips. She was so damn cute.
She lined up her first shot, paused, and looked up at me. “You ready to lose, hotshot?”
I crossed my feet at the ankles and leaned against the fence. “Do your worst.”
She tapped the ball lightly, and to my absolute surprise, I watched the ball roll straight down the green and drop into the hole.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
She threw her hands up in triumph. “Yes. Eat dirt and die.”
I shook my head with a laugh. “Don’t get too cocky. That’s what they call beginner’s luck.”
She stepped away, still grinning. Her smile was bright and cheerful, like she was seconds away from giving her victory speech.
I stepped up to the green and slanted my legs. I lined my ball up like I’d done this a thousand times. Because I had. There was nothing challenging about this. I could make this putt in my sleep.
I glanced at Becca, who was off to the side watching me. “You ready to be impressed with my skills again?” I winked.
“I don’t know. What are the chances we both get a hole in one?”
I licked my lips when she adjusted the string of her blouse, revealing the outline of her black lace bra. When I lifted my eyebrow, silently asking what she was doing. The woman was messing with my head, and she knew it too.
“Becca, are you trying to distract me?”
“I’m just making sure you don’t cheat.”
I made the mistake of glancing over at her. She pushed the neck of her top aside to adjust her bra strap. That’s what Isaw when my putter connected with the ball. It rolled forward, veered to the left, and slowed about an inch from the cup. Motherfucker, it stopped an inch short.
I stood there and glared, waiting for it to magically start rolling forward the rest of the way.
There was a burst of laughter behind me. “Impressive.”
I stepped forward while her laughter got louder. “You did that on purpose.”
“While I am capable of doing a lot of things, making a ball stop short isn’t one of them.” She shook her head, pretending to be disappointed in me. “That was an easy shot.”
“No, shit.”
She patted my shoulder. “Too bad. Better luck next time. You can’t win them all.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “You really going to make fun of me?”
“What? You were an inch short. It happens. Maybe I’ll add that into the article.”
I laughed despite myself. “Can’t say anyone has ever accused me of being an inch short before.”
Her lips parted when she realized how close we were. “Someone has to keep that ego of yours in check.”
“If you keep looking at me like that, we are never going to finish this game.”
