Page 80 of The Sweet Spot

In a month? Two months? I haven’t checked when our schedules align next.

“About that,” I say, propping my chin on his chest so I can watch his face. “I might have moved things around, so I don’t have to leave until tomorrow morning.”

He goes very still. The only thing I feel are his fingers twitching as they stop caressing my shoulder.

“Say that again.”

“I'm here until tomorrow.”

“So you could—” He sits up slightly, dislodging me, his eyes searching mine to see if I’m serious. “You could come to my game tonight?”

“Only if you’d like me there.”

“If I'd—” He laughs, and I feel the chuckle reverberate through his chest. “Yes, fucking please. Yes. Will you please come to my game?”

“Of course.”

His hand cups my cheek, and he pulls me into him, kissing me so deeply I can feel his cock hardening against my thigh.

I back away and rest my forehead against his. “Is it okay if I stay here tonight instead of with my parents?”

He puffs out a breath, throws the covers off, and launches out of bed.

“JB? What are you—”

He's already gone, disappearing into his closet, and I prop myself up on my elbows, watching the empty doorway as drawers slide and hangers scrape.

“I told you,” his voice comes muffled through the wall of clothes, “you're welcome here. Anytime.”

Then he reappears.

Naked and semi-hard, he gestures grandly back at the closet as though he’s a game show host revealing a prize.

I can't help it. I laugh.

“I made you space,” he announces, proud as anything, his hands still sweeping toward the closet. “Already. Last week, actually. Before I even knew you were coming. There's a whole section. It's yours. Take it. Stay whenever, for however long you want.”

“Stop kidding, JB.”

“I'm not.” He drops the showmanship, and his voice goes quieter, which is somehow worse for my composure than the nakedness. “I know you’ve never really had an excuse to settle down because you hop from city to city and have never felt like you need a home base, but I want you to have one. It can be somewhere you can just be Whit—not the best female golfer in the country.”

“World,” I correct before I can stop myself.

His brow furrows.

“If we’re going on points, I’m the best female golfer in the world.”

He barks out a laugh. “World. My mistake. The best golfer in the world.” He shakes his head, smiling. “I just want to give you an option that isn't another hotel or your parents’ house.”

“Because moving in with a Catfish player is so much more dignified than staying in a house with a catfish man cave.”

“Oh, it's better, baby.” He leans down over the bed, bracketing me with his arms, and kisses me slow. “So much better.”

He smells like sex, and I let myself have the kiss for a second longer than I should before I plant a hand on his chest and shove him away.

“Go shower. You stink of sex.”

“That's the smell of victory, Whit.”