Page 17 of The Sweet Spot

I feel him freeze, and he slowly turns around to take me in.

“It’s not made for the hinge. It’s why your lower half is tight,” I answer quickly, avoiding all the thoughts about his curved, muscled butt. “Golf needs you to hinge and rotate. Your glutes are too developed. They're fighting the movement.”

JB takes a second to process this information before a grin grows wide on his face.

“You’re telling me my ass is too big for golf?”

I swallow. Close my eyes and try to regain any composure I have left. “It's too muscled, which is creating resistance in the rotation.”

“I squat,” he says, spreading his hands out. “All the time. Every day of my professional life. What do you expect?”

He stares at me. I stare back. A slow grin is starting at the corner of his mouth, and I know exactly what's about to come out of it, so I get there first.

“Golf requires fluidity,” I say, placing my hands back on his hips. “Rotation. Finesse. It's not about generating raw power and sending the ball into orbit. It's about sequencing. The club does the work if you let it.”

“Finesse,” he repeats. “You want finesse, Marlow?” He looks at me. “I can do that.”

He shimmies a little again.

I sigh. “Are you ever serious?”

“I can be.” The shimmying stops. He picks the club back up and settles into his position.

I take a step back as he sets up over the ball, and this time, when he goes through the motion, I can see him actually thinking about it, trying to let the lower half lead. The contact isn't perfect, but the ball flight is straighter. This time the ball actually holds its line.

We both watch it land, neither of us saying anything for a moment.

“Better,” I say.

He looks at me over his shoulder with one corner of his mouth tilted up. “Damn. I was hoping for another tango with you, Marlow.”

My eye twitches, and irritation makes its way through my chest.

It was just a joke. A light, throwaway, completely harmless joke that I should be able to dismiss.

Sadly, every time I close my eyes, all I see are his big, juicy glutes. Yeah, he'd definitely be able to throw me around if I asked him.

I pick up my bag.

“I’m going to talk to my caddy. I’ll see you at the first tee,” I say, needing some space from him.

I hear him laugh behind me, but I don't look back. I'm not going to let him or his perfect ass get in my way of winning.

I narrow my eyes, taking in the fairway.

JB moves up beside me and leans in as I assess the first hole. It's a four-hundred-and-twelve-yard par four with a slight dogleg left.

“Looks like a great hole,” he says.

I flinch. My jaw clenches, and I close my eyes.

Why? Why did my brain immediately go to him complimenting my great holes? Is that even a compliment anyway?

I shake my head, ignoring the fact that he's close enough that I can smell him and can therefore confirm he showered today.

“Don't do that,” I grit out.

“Do what?”