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“It’s not that,” I say, jaw flexing. I’d rather not talk about your boyfriend, actually. “I have an opportunity to join a pro-am and I need a partner.”

Her mouth drops open and she blinks at me a few times. Nothing comes out. Finally, she says, “Oh, how would you like me to help? I can talk to a few of the members on staff and see if any of them would be interested.”

I frown. “What? No. I’m asking you to be my partner.”

Hazel stares at me, and I don’t know if she’s confused or is trying to figure out how to turn me down.

“Are you sure you want me?” she finally asks.

It’s my turn to be stunned. Jesus, does she not know she’s good? More than good, actually. From her swing alone and the one time she caddied for me, I can already tell she knows more than most of the amateurs who sign up for these events.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Her eyes light up. “When is it?”

I scratch at my jaw. “It’s after the U.S. Open, at the end of June. It’s in Palm Beach, Florida, and it’ll run for a whole week.”

Her entire demeanor changes, shoulders hunching, the smile on her face falling away. “Oh. I—I’m sorry. I can’t.” She doesn’t offer any explanation. Instead, she avoids my gaze and goes back to cleaning the shelf at her side.

Her answer takes me aback and a small flicker of irritation sparks in my gut. Why? “The whole event is televised,” I add, pathetically. Like that might change her mind.

She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “That’s nice. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it. But thank you for thinking of me, I’m flattered.”

Her cordial and perfunctory response annoys me further. She takes one look at the scowl on my face and goes back to avoiding eye contact. Great. So much for making that connection.

I open my mouth to—what? Beg her to do it? No matter how much I wanted this plan to work, she doesn’t seem interested.

“Just think about it,” is all I say before walking away. I stop near the door, looking over at her once more, hoping that she miraculously changed her mind. My shoulders slump as I realize she hasn’t.

I spend more of the day working out. My muscles scream in protest, but I keep pushing, running, working on my core strength until I can’t any longer.

Ezra finds me laying on the floor of the gym in the guest house, panting for breath. He whistles and raises an eyebrow at me. “Didn’t get enough of a workout this morning?”

“Had. Some. Frustrations. To. Work. Out,” I say between large gulps of air.

“Sexual ones?” He grins, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. “I assume you talked to the caddie girl.”

I groan and force myself to sit up. With a glare in his direction, I say, “Don’t call her that.”

My best friend narrows his eyes at me and takes a seat on the floor opposite me. “Testy. What happened?”

I huff and lift the bottom of my shirt to wipe the sweat off my forehead. “She said no.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t give a reason. And I don’t know her well enough to press the topic,” I mutter.

“Damn. What are you gonna do now?”

“I don’t know,” I say, running a hand over my face. “Ask someone else, I guess.”

“Sorry, man,” he says, pouting. “On the bright side, if my handicap gets any worse, I could be your partner.”

I purse my lips disapprovingly at his self-deprecating joke. “Shut up.”

“Hey, be nice. I’m fragile.” He laughs, but I can tell he’s only half-joking.

“Take your fragile ass down to the simulator. You’re gonna swing your irons for the next hour because of that comment,” I say, standing up and reaching out a hand for him to take.