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Funny, he looked . . . normal. Even halfway attractive. His eyes seemed more interesting without the large frames, and the goatee that he'd despised and wanted to shave off had grown in nicely. He'd gotten in the habit of lifting some weights after Zumba while Kennedy drilled him, and the muscles he sported already seemed a bit tighter and more defined.
He was officially deemed socially acceptable. His big mixer was set up for Friday night. All three women had declared him ready to hit the next level.
Now, if he could only learn not to shove his foot in his mouth like Fred Flintstone, life would be perfect.
He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. Shame on him for wishing Kennedy Ashe would be his very own Wilma, ready to accept and love him even with all his noticeable flaws.
This wasn't primitive times. And that cartoon got canceled a damn long time ago.
Nate ignored the ache in his heart and told himself he was looking forward to the mixer.
ten
NATE WATCHED GREEDILY as Kennedy climbed out of her car, the short tennis dress flipping up in the spring breeze. He figured she'd text him an excuse rather than show up on a midweek morning on the golf course. Her hips swung with an innate sauciness that was part of her core, and she stopped in front of him. Her scarlet nails contrasted sexily against the white dress.
"I didn't think you'd come."
She arched a golden brow. "I don't welsh on my promises. I'm ready to play some golf."
He almost laughed at the disdain in her voice as she said the word. His spirits lifted and suddenly, he was excited for the few hours ahead. He was such a chump.
"I'm helping someone else out with his swing, but he's running late. He may catch up with us later. Let's hit the course."
He shifted his clubs, guided her into the golf cart, and led her to the first tee. The wooded pines and fir trees tangled amid acres of bright green under a cloudless sky. The air held a hint of chill, but the sun poured down bright and cheerful. Her hushed voice floated in the wind. "It's so beautiful. And quiet."
"Midweek is the best time. We can just relax and play around a bit. Less serious stuff."
"Do you ever think of playing professionally?"
He shook his head and set the clubs down. "Nah, not interested. I enjoy helping others, though, and I'm constantly looking to shave a stroke or two off my game. It's a mental challenge, but it's also soothing. Out here, I can clear my head."
She dragged in a breath and smiled. "Yeah, I see what you mean. I'm always focused on my next task, even when I'm alone, I forget what it's like to just be."
"Must be tough trying to bring love to the world."
She crinkled her nose. "You making fun of me?"
"No. I think you're held to a higher power than me and my rockets. I help people get to space. You help people find love."
She drew back in surprise. Those gorgeous whiskey eyes softened. "Thanks."
"Welcome. You remember the grip we talked about?"
"Like this?"
He spent a few minutes going over the basics and rules of the game. "Use this club for your approach shot. Do you know the target?"
"Oh, can I put the ball in that pretty beach thing there?"
"No, that's a hazard. Sand trap. If it looks pretty, avoid it." He pointed right. "Over there, see the flag?"
"That's a million miles away!"
"You don't get there in the first shot. Aim that way, and we do it in stages. Each one is a stroke. Right now I want to concentrate on your natural swing. We learned a lot from the simulator, but this will be different. Remember to keep your eye on the ball."
"Hello, naked Channing Tatum."
"Thanks for the visual. I just threw up in my mouth."
Her giggle charmed rather than annoyed him. She drew the club back, rotated nicely, and slammed the club forward, completing a nice full arc.
The ball flew in a perfect spin and landed on the edge of the fairway.
Very close to the green.
How the hell had she done that?
"Oh, man, I suck! I told you I'd suck."
"Ken, that was a great shot. Most men I teach can't do that for at least a few weeks. Have you practiced?"
She snorted. "With what? Listen, we need to talk about something serious. I thought you said your golf clothes were designer. When are you going to start listening to me regarding your wardrobe?"
Nate ignored her, studied the landing, and did a few calculations in his head. How could she have completed a good square club face as a novice? Her natural swing was off the charts. This time, he found the pencil in his pocket, grabbed his scorecard, and scribbled down some calculations. Again, she held a slight left hook tendency, but that was an easy tweak.
"Earth to Nate."
"Yeah?"
"The orange pants. That is a crime against nature. You're scaring the birds."
He looked up with a frown. "Are you kidding me? These shorts are from Rickie Fowler's line. They cost a fortune."
"Who's Ricky?"
"One of the best golfers in the world."
Kennedy rolled her eyes. "For God's sakes, why is he designing clothes if he golfs? Golfers have the world's worst fashion sense. You can't wear those again."
"Fine."
"Your turn, right?"
"Yeah." He quieted his mind and his breath, and hit his approach shot. Damn, he'd end up getting a bogey if he didn't clean it up in the next swing. He barely missed the hazard and fell into the rough close to Kennedy's ball.
"Yay, you did good. Cool, we're together."
"Let's go."
They trudged to the next hole. This time, he studied the way she set up her body. Her pullback was amazing, a gorgeous, graceful arc that connected cleanly with the ball. Rarely did females follow through with enough power to hit the ball far, let alone keep their eyes so securely on the target. Her shot cut through the air and landed right next to the hole.
No. Fucking. Way.
His eyes bugged out. She stuck out her lower lip in a pout to rival a mov
ie star's. "Aww, I missed."
He jerked around. "Missed? You can putt the ball right in. You got a par three."
"That's good?"
"It's almost impossible for a beginner. Or so I thought."
She brightened and did a little dance. Her skirt swung and showed off tanned, muscular thighs and a cute rear. The little white socks and sneakers gave her a juvenile look. Her full breasts strained against the dress and bounced to the rhythm. He cursed under his breath and bit his tongue on purpose. The sudden pain grounded him.
He was missing something. What did she have that most first-time golfers didn't? How could she line herself up so perfectly without strain and manage to pitch the ball so far? "Your turn!" she chirped.
"Fine." This time, the ball rolled in a drunken arc too far from the green and slid into the sand trap.
"Oh, I'm sorry. That's bad, right?"
Aggravation stirred inside him. "Yes, that's bad. You go. Use the putter."
"Cool, I like the little stick better." She wiggled her ass and with a delicate tap, sank the ball. "Yay, I did it!"
"Goody for you."
"How are you going to get out of that sand thing?"
"Watch." Usually he was a whiz at the sand traps, but this time he took two swings to get himself out. When he finally sank his ball, he was wondering if he was being pranked on some hidden camera show.
The nightmare continued. Nate watched as she commanded each hole, her swing never wavering and giving her perfect pars while he struggled with his own game. She grew perkier, and he grew more annoyed as he started sporting a massive erection and a headache.
By the time they were halfway through, he was done.
"Maybe we should break. I don't want to tire you the first time we're on a real course," he said.
"Good idea. Hey, this wasn't as bad as I thought. I'll do it again."
"Hooray," Nate said humorlessly.
They climbed into the cart and took off. Nate wondered if he could sneak back in an hour and finish his game. It must be the sexual energy that had messed him up. He quickly texted Wolfe that they'd need to reschedule for that week and decided to go to work early.
"Nate?"
"Yeah?"
"Did you always want to be an aerospace engineer?"
Her off-topic question pulled him back to the present. "No. I wanted to be a superhero. I always felt I could make Batman's cave a hell of a lot better, and the Batmobile needed some tweaking."
That earned him another of her husky laughs. "Bet you were always smart."
"Yeah. I got bored too quickly in school, so they pushed me ahead a year. And of course, once they introduced higher mathematical concepts, I understood exactly what they meant. I never struggled, and in my spare time I studied formulas. So I changed from becoming the next Batman to helping get a man into space. When the NASA program disassembled, I sided with the camp of the private sector that wanted to open up space travel to everyone. Rich billionaires began creating their own companies for the purpose, and I came back to New York."
