Page 59

I blow out a breath and run a hand over Petunia, sitting on my other side. “It was…eventful. But I didn’t get much practice in,” I admit.

“How so?”

“I had to help Ezra with something. He had to return to Boston tonight. Which reminds me,” I say, gritting my teeth against what I’m about to say. I don’t know why I feel on edge suddenly. This should be a good thing. “You can move into the guest house now, if you want to.”

I watch her expression as she takes in the news. Her brows furrow and her lips purse as she intently looks at the last pepperoni in her hand. “Do I have to?”

I blink, my shoulders relaxing. I want her to stay here in the main house, but I don’t analyze the feeling too closely because I’m not sure it’s a wise choice.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I say softly, catching her eye.

She nods, giving me a bright smile. The dimple makes an appearance and my fingers curl around the charcuterie plate.

“Then I’d like to stay here. I already unpacked and…I really like this couch,” she finishes, leaning back against it, crossing her arms over her chest.

Gus jumps up on the couch next to her and loaves up at her hip. We’re literally trapped next to one another by a pair of fuzzballs.

“Plus, this little guy,” she says, tapping his nose with her finger.

And. He. Lets. Her.

Surprisingly, it’s not jealousy flaring in my chest at the sight of her with my cat. It’s something softer and warmer, wrapping around me like the first heat of summer on the golf course—like the end of a golden day.

“Good. Stay,” I say, voice thick with something I haven’t felt in a long, long time. Longing.

“Since you haven’t practiced today,” Hazel says, looking over at me. She doesn’t seem to notice the strain in my voice, which is fine by me. “Would you want to go downstairs and use the simulator?”

“Are you going to join me?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

“Might as well, if we’re going to win that pro-am.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grin.

“Someone promised me a motorcycle ride if we do.” She shrugs, standing up and cocking her hip. She places a hand on it and taps her fingers in thought. “Unless you don’t care about winning.”

I grunt. “I always care about winning.”

Her head tilts up so she can look me in the eyes as I stand. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass me on live TV,” she jokes, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I told my dad to watch it.”

I laugh and follow her down the stairs.

This girl.

After a few warmup shots, we queue up nine rounds. I’m not surprised at how good she is. Perfect form, amazing short game. Her driving needs a bit of work, but it’s nothing she can’t improve by the time the LPGA tour starts. I have every bit of confidence that she’ll pass her certification and get through the qualifiers.

“What would you suggest I do to improve my drive?” she asks on the last hole.

The frown on her face bothers me. I almost want to reach out and smooth it away with my thumb.

“Try teeing higher. Focus on the follow-through,” I say, bending down to adjust her tee and her ball.

I watch as she takes a few practice swings, then step toward her, my hands out to indicate that I’d like to guide her. “May I?”

She looks at me and nods.

I approach and keep one hand on the wrist of the hand holding the driver and the other around her opposite shoulder. “Bend your left elbow more as you come up.”

She follows my directions and starts twisting. Her back leans against my chest and I take a breath. Big fucking mistake. Her hair is near my nose, smelling of lavender and rose. My fingers tighten on her shoulder in response.