Page 13 of Wedge

Five is the toughest hole on the front nine, and it plays even tougher today. Three fifty, uphill enough that it eats the biggest club, the wind pouring down off the peaks and straight into our faces, flattening the wildflowers in the rough and whipping the flag into a frenzy. The designer tucked the green behind a pair of bunkers that guard it like they’ve got a grudge against golfers. The pin’s back right, which means anything short and left is dead, and anything long rolls off into rough that’ll swallow a ball whole and the golfer next.

“Wind’s quartering into you,” I tell him. “Take one more club than you think. Maybe two.”

“Okay,” he says, still looking at the flag, still not looking at me.

He hits it clean anyway. The guy’s got a swing that doesn’t seem to care what’s going on in his head, and the ball climbs into the wind, hangs there like it’s thinking it over, and holds, dropping soft twelve feet from the cup, well over three hundred yards.

“That is one hell of a shot into this wind,” I say, and my hand actually starts to move, halfway to his shoulder, before I catch myself and pull it back. Something about the way he’s been today makes it feel like the wrong move, like he might flinch. Or much worse, might not. Like consent has been taken away, and I have no way to get it back.

“Good work,” I say instead, keeping it in words, safe words, nothing that requires him to let me touch him.

He glances at me then, quick, and there’s something sad in it. He knows he isn’t getting the touch, is getting the words instead. He is giving me something that looks almost like an apology before he drops his eyes again and starts walking up the fairway.

That does it. I catch up to him, match his pace. Step in front of him, forcing him to stop.

Back on the tee, the rest of our foursome is busy watching Cher wrestle a wig in the wind. The gusts eat half of every word. Nobody’s close enough to hear, but I keep my voice low, anyway.

“Hey.” I wait until he has to at least acknowledge I’m talking. “Want to tell me what’s got you not looking at me today?”

He still isn’t looking at me.

“You want a different caddie? I can trade with someone else.”

“What?” he finally looks up, startled. “No!”

“Then,” I growl, stepping in close to him, “You will tell me why you cannot look at me. What did I do wrong so I don’t do it again?”

His entire body flushes, I can see it rising from the V of his polo and up onto his face, the tips of his ears. I’m close enough that I can feel it.

“You didn’t do anything,” he whispers. “It’s me.”

“What’s you?” I’m not letting this go. Not this time.

He clenches his jaw, looking away, and I grit my teeth with the desire to jerk that chin back to me.

“Look. At. Me,” I growl again.

His eyes snap to mine. Wide and blown to black, his breath coming faster. This is not a panic attack. He is… aroused. My cock twitches. I grind my teeth.

“Tell. Me,” I growl low.

“I had a dream, and it’s fucking with my head,” he says in a rush.

I absorb this. A dream.

“About me?” I ask in a low voice.

He nods and looks away, miserable.

“No. Look at me.” Hazel eyes meet mine again. “Good boy.”

His lips part. In shock or arousal, I can’t tell. This is new ground for me. And I’m rock hard now. Good thing I have a caddie bib. Adrian has no bib, and that is very… obvious.

“So you had a hot dream about me, and now you can’t look at me.” I state it as a fact. Blunt. Trying to diffuse this because we damned sure cannot do anything else out on this golf course. He nods, his eyes still locked on mine.

“Okay,” I say. His eyes are begging me. God, I’m in trouble. “So, whatever your imagination dreamed up was good. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve had…” shit, will this help or hurt? Too late, my mouth keeps going, “…thoughts about you, too.”

His eyes almost roll back in his head.