Page 14 of The Sweet Spot

“He’s also got sparkling green eyes.”

“Does he?” she asks with a hint of amusement.

“And he’s intense. You like intense guys.”

Her lips pull into a smirk. “So you want me to fake sexual tension with my golf partner so you don’t have to admit there’s sexual tension on your side of the course?”

I glare back, making her chuckle.

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop teasing you.”

“Thank you.”

“But I can't pretend to flirt with Max to help you out.”

“Why not?”

She lifts her hand up, flaunting her diamond engagement ring.

“Because Joe is my person. He fixes my laptop when it breaks, doesn’t care that I miss every holiday because of the tour, and last week he sent me a care package with the specific brand of trail mix I like, so—” She straightens up and smooths her skirt. “—I do not need a ballplayer. I have a computer nerd and he is perfect, but nice attempt at changing the subject.”

“Had to try,” I mutter under my breath, knowing it was a losing battle before I started.

She loops her arm in mine, pulling me to the door. “Come on. Your partner's waiting.”

“Don't remind me.”

I let her drag me through the changing room, past the reporters and photographers set up in the clubhouse, and out to the course.

I’ve been on thousands of golf courses in my life now, but none of them hit like the ones I play in Charlotte.

St. Ives is no different. I haven’t played it much because of its strict members-only policy, but I’ve always admired the rolling fairways and beautiful greens.

Under any other circumstance, I'd be excited to play. Golf is my thing. It always has been, ever since my dad took me to the driving range when I was three.

Right now, though, I’m ticked off.

The other pairings are already out stretching, and every single one of them is in tasteful grays and blues.

The only person who isn’t is my partner for the next two days.

“It was him,” I grit under my teeth, glaring at the countless fish printed on his pants.

“What was—” the words die on Jess's lips. “Wow. Those are some pants.”

“He’s trying to embarrass me,” I say. “He went on and on about how much he liked my game because he knew I’d caught him laughing at me.”

“I don’t think it’s that deep, Whit. I think he was laughing because he was crushing.”

“And now, as if rushing me into throwing the worst pitch in history—”

“Oh, babe. You can’t blame anyone but yourself for that.”

"—wasn't enough. He wants to embarrass me all over again."

He hasn’t noticed me yet. If he had, I have no doubts he’d be rushing me like the over-enthusiastic golden retriever he is.

Thank goodness. I need time to prepare for his pep.