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I want to reach out and part her lips with my thumb. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable while cleaning the scratch. I may have gotten a bit too…” I choose my words carefully, gauging her reaction. “…familiar. I apologize for that.”

Hazel’s frown is still in place as she contemplates my words. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, holding my gaze.

I breathe a sigh of relief but then my shoulders stiffen. “Then why did you run?”

“Wha—" Hazel stammers. “I didn’t run. Did I?”

Her cheeks are turning a lovely shade of pink, and I bite my tongue so I don’t do something stupid, like reach out and kiss her.

“You did,” I say, lips twisting with a smile.

“I was…” She takes a deep breath and holds it. Then her eyes meet mine again and she lets it out. “I was flustered.”

My heart pounds against my chest and it takes everything in me not to grab her and pull her into my lap. I want to run my hands all over her, find all her soft and warm places, and burrow deep under her skin.

“Oh? Why?” I ask.

Her blush deepens and I lean in closer. She mirrors me, swaying forward too, so that we’re one breath apart, our forearms touching on the console between us.

The smell of her lavender and rose shampoo drives me fucking crazy. I inhale her scent and lean in just enough that the tips of our noses touch.

“Why what?” she whispers, her breathing turning heavier, deeper.

Her chest rises and falls with each inhale, and I try my damnedest not to look at her cleavage.

Her minty breath mingles with mine.

“Why were you flustered?” I ask.

The tip of her tongue darts out as she licks her lips and says, “Because⁠—”

There’s a rapid knock on my window, startling both of us apart. I grit my teeth and turn to glare at whoever the fuck just interrupted this moment.

Shit.

My swing coach, Murray, is staring at me through the window, his eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest.

I unlock the doors and detach my seatbelt. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hazel doing the same. She avoids my gaze as she gets out of the car and grabs her backpack.

“Murray,” I say in greeting.

The large man in front of me gives me a scrutinizing look, and I all but squirm in my shoes. If there’s one person I’m intimidated by, it’s Murray. At six foot eight and classically handsome, the hunk of a man towers over me.

His Irish accent comes out in full swing as he says, “Late now, are we?”

I frown and look at the gold watch on my right wrist. Five minutes late. I wince, knowing how Murray feels about people being punctual.

“I’m sorry. Got caught in some traffic,” I lie, looking over my shoulder at Hazel.

She’s not meeting my eyes, and I deflate. Whatever that moment in the car was between us, it’s gone now.

“Sure, traffic,” he deadpans, running a hand over his dark red beard.

“Murray, this is Hazel. She’s my new short game liaison,” I say, introducing the two.

“Welcome on board, Hazel. Glad to have you on the team,” he says, extending a large palm for her to shake.

She takes it and smiles up at him. “Thank you, I’m happy to be here.”