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Right. He doesn’t believe in me or care about the reason behind why I bust my ass. He just cares that he’s not getting any.

“Maybe we need to talk about us,” I say, blinking away the last of my tears and looking him dead in the eye.

Brody takes a step back, his dark eyebrows furrowing. “Okay,” he says.

“This weekend, we’ll talk about it,” I say. Ugh, why am I putting it off for the weekend? It’s only Monday.

Brody nods and leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head so he gets my cheek instead. I don’t stick around to see if his feelings are hurt. I leave the apartment and head to my car.

Of course when I get to the parking lot, my car won't start. I'm not about to go back inside and ask Brody to come jump-start it for me, so I wander the complex until I find a random neighbor one building over and beg them for help. It adds ten minutes I didn't have to spare, but it's worth it to not have to deal with Brody again this morning, and in the end I make it to work only twenty minutes late.

The leather seat of the golf cart is warm as I take it for a spin and head out to meet my best friend, Rosie who is covering for me this morning on the Gold course.

The courses at Hartford Heritage are some of the best in the state, maybe even in the country. The weather today is in the high seventies and sunny—perfect for a day of golf. Not as perfect for driving around in a cart selling drinks and snacks, but that’s the job I’ve been assigned today. Hell, that’s the job I’ve got most days, even though I keep telling my supervisor that I need to caddie and work in the pro shop to meet my required hours for the LPGA certification.

But my begging is useless. He thinks my good looks are better used out on the course where crusty old men can gawk at me while I pull beers out from the cooler, so he only assigns me the bare minimum certification hours I need each week. At this rate, it’ll take me a billion years to go pro.

I catch up to Rosie and stop next to her cart, where she’s fulfilling an order. Once the men get back to their round of golf, I jump out and give her a bone-crushing hug.

“Thank you. You are literally the best and I love you so much.”

“Mm-hmm, you better remember this next time I need a favor,” she says, her ginger hair swinging with the motion as she shakes her head at me, smiling. I don’t know what I would do without her.

I grin back at her. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Break up with Brody and move in with me,” she says almost immediately.

I laugh. “Well, I think I’m getting close to the breakup. I told him we need to talk.”

“Wait, really? That’s amazing. Today?”

I look down and scuff my golf cleats on the paved path, wincing at the bad habit. This is what—my third pair in the last couple of years? “No, this weekend.”

Rosie groans and grabs my shoulders. “No, just do it. Do it now. Today. Don’t wait,” she says, shaking me.

“I know, I just—if he tells me I need to move out, then I have to pack up and crash at your apartment. I don’t want to deal with that during the week when I work a ton of hours.”

“Ugh, fine,” Rosie says. Her eyes narrow on me and she continues, “But what do you mean if you move out? You definitely are!”

“I’ll see if he agrees with me staying on a bit longer, just until I find something or save up some money. You know I want to live with you, but your place is so tiny, I would just be cramping your style.”

“Stop it with your logic, but fine, I get it,” she says, blue eyes pinned on me. Her concern is like a fist wrapped around my heart, but she should know by now I’ll always land on my feet.

Once we swap places, Rosie heads back to her actual job for the day, cleaning golf carts and parking them. We do a lot of odd jobs around here: we clean, we drive around, we help out in the pro shop, we bartend at the restaurant, and if we’re lucky, we even caddie.

The caddie job gets us the most tips, so we all want to do it, but the supervisor is very selective on who he calls in. Even though I have the knowledge and experience, he still won’t let me do it. If I didn’t require the hours in the pro shop, he likely wouldn’t assign me there either. So, I keep doing this boring job—driving along the course, thinking about what a mess my life is. I just need a damn break.

In the distance I spot the one and only Levi Carmichael, number one golfer in the world and the PGA Tour player of the year. Not only is our golf club his home club, but two years ago he bought a mansion at the edge of the Gold course so his backyard literally opens up and connects to it.

The man can wake up in the morning, hop in his golf cart and start a round from the convenience of his backyard if he so pleases. Oh, to be a white man in your prime.

The first time I met him a few months ago, I was so nervous. It’s not every day you meet the world’s best golfer—so it’s safe to say I was a mess. I had stopped to chat with him on my cart path, not realizing who he was at first. As soon as the wheels of the cart stopped, so did my brain. I mentally face-palmed myself and tried to reign in my nerves, which did nothing for me. As soon as Levi approached me, probably to tell me he didn’t need anything, I assaulted him with questions.

Are you Levi Carmichael?

The number one golfer in the world?

Would you like some water? Snacks?