Page 23 of The Sweet Spot

“I know where the bunker is. I've been playing this course all morning.”

“Then you know a driver puts you in it.”

“Only if I miss left.”

“You've been missing left since the fifth hole.”

My fists clench because she is, without question, the most frustrating woman I have ever met. If she wasn’t so pretty, I’d have quit after the third hole.

I pull the three wood.

“Good,” she says.

“Don't,” I say.

She blinks. “Don't what?”

“Don't good me. I'm not one of your juniors.”

We stare at each other, and I raise my brow, daring her to respond.

Her mouth twitches as she steps back.

Does she have the balls to say what I think she's going to say?

“Then stop hitting like one,” she says softly, but loud enough for me to hear.

The air shifts between us.

I glare at her. She glares back.

I want to be annoyed, I am annoyed, I am genuinely standing here on the eighth tee with my three wood in my hand trying to impress a woman who seemingly wants to whack me in the balls with his club.

It's not worth it, JB.

Blowing out a breath, I set up, then focus on my grip pressure. It needs to be loose, not clutched.

Okay.

It now needs to move through my hips, arms and club.

I ignore the fact that Whit is standing behind me and refuse to acknowledge her as I swing.

The ball goes long and clean and holds its line, landing right in the center of the fairway.

I straighten up and do my best to hold back my smirk when I hear her exhale.

“See,” I say, not turning around. “We've got this.”

She says nothing for a second. Then quietly. “I hope so.”

By the time I’ve turned around, she’s already pulling her club out, refusing to acknowledge me any further.

I raise my hands, ready to shake every ounce of stubbornness out of her, then let them fall. Touching her right now would either end with me kissing her or being arrested. Honestly, I'm not sure which is more likely.

Nine more holes, JB. That’s all it is.

“And then eighteen tomorrow,” I mutter to myself.