Page 89 of The Sweet Spot

He unloops the club and holds it out like a walking stick before leaning forward and puckering his lips.

I roll my eyes and push past him to my golf clubs. “You're acting like it's a big deal that I've moved in with you.”

“Because it is a big deal.”

“I've pretty much been sleeping there when I'm in town since November.” I pull out one of my clubs, studying it instead of looking at my live-in boyfriend.

“But you didn't take up any of the closet space until last week. You've moved in, Whit.”

I have, but what I don't tell him is that it’s all just physical stuff. I've never cared about that. This move doesn't feel like a huge deal to me because JB's been my home since our golf cart hookup.

“Yeah, well. I still reserve the right to leave if you buy any more catfish-themed clothing.” I look pointedly down at his pants with disdain. Really, I love them because they are an extension of him.

He raises his hands. “Hey! I can't guarantee that. I work for them. As does your father. The Catfish are good people, Whit.”

“Fine, but if I wake up one morning and find catfish curtains in our bedroom, we're gonna have to talk.”

“Our bedroom? Stop with the dirty talk, Whit. It's like you're just trying to get me to re-enact the golf cart.”

My cheeks flush. I hate how infuriatingly hot I find this man.

I poke him with my club in a vain attempt to hide my reddening cheeks.

“Get back to stretching, JB. We need to retain our title.”

“We'll retain it,” he says, waving me off as he sets up for a practice swing.

“How can you be so sure?” I point my thumb over my shoulder. “Just saw Austin and that man's thighs have grown again.”

“Exactly. If you think my hips are stiff, maybe you should look at his.” He pulls out of his pose, and thinks about the implication. “On second thought. Don't do that. I really don't want you helping him with his hips.”

“You've got nothing to worry about,” I say. “Now, swing.”

I step back, watching JB as he positions himself with his driver. He's got better, which isn't surprising since we spent most weekends in the winter playing together. Not that I'd ever tell him that. He'd view it as a marriage proposal.

He swings, and the ball holds its line.

I watch, saying nothing.

When it bounces on the practice green, he looks at me over his shoulder. “Well?”

“Your setup was fine.”

“Just fine?”

“It was good.”

“It was better than good, Coach.”

Moving past him, I take over his practice area and do my swing. We both watch it. JB lets out a low whistle.

“Oh, yeah, we're going to win today. I can feel it.”

“Your confidence is cute,” I say, putting the club back into my bag.

He comes up behind me, plants his hands on my hips and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. I smile the second his lips touch my skin. “It's not confidence. It's facts.”

“Facts?” I nudge him away with my hip. It's not exactly a secret that we're dating. We literally went public with an Athlete Illustrated spread where I smashed a ball off a tee JB was holding with his teeth. Still, that doesn't mean I need to put on a show here.