Page 44

Hazel laughs. It’s loud and high-pitched and it startles both of us.

“Sorry. That’s just hard to believe when you—” She gestures at me, at the rest of the house. You’re rich, she doesn’t say. What would you know?

“I wasn’t always made of money,” I admit. Hazel watches me patiently as I tap my fingers on the countertop. “My dad and I had a falling out after I graduated boarding school. He wanted me to go to Harvard and follow in his footsteps. Become a doctor. When I said no, again and again, and when I didn’t even apply to Harvard, he disowned me.”

Hazel frowns, propping her chin on her closed fists. “What did you do?”

“I hid it for a while. I still had access to some money, but I was too young to get a hotel room or rent a car. I mostly couch-surfed, went to parties and pretended I was too drunk to go home.”

“What about your mom? She let this happen?” Hazel asks cautiously, watching me.

I swallow hard and look away for a moment. I’m sure if my mother were alive, she would have done everything in her power to talk sense into my father.

“She died in a car accident when I was younger,” I say, voice thick with sadness.

“I’m sorry,” Hazel says, hand reaching out to clasp my fingers.

Her skin is soft; her hands bare of any jewelry. I look down at where her fingers squeeze around my palm and the corners of my lips lift in a small smile.

“Thanks. What I’m trying to say is, if it wasn’t for Ezra and his family taking me in, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I wouldn’t have found my love for golf.”

“That’s different—Ezra wasn’t a stranger when you were going through all that,” she says, shoulders slumping.

“You’re not a stranger either. At least”—I swallow hard, admitting the thing I’ve been afraid to look at too closely—“it doesn’t feel like you’re a stranger. I don’t let a lot of people into my life, but for some reason, I trust you.”

Her gaze is steady and searching as she watches me. Slowly, she nods. “I feel the same way.”

I squeeze her fingers back in reply.

She looks down at our intertwined hands. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I would still feel like I owed you something.”

I blow out a frustrated breath. God, she’s stubborn. But I can’t blame her. I was too, when Ezra found me selling off all my belongings just to get some extra cash. I fought back when he told his parents. When they sat me down and told me I needed a stable home and a place to land, regardless of what I wanted to do with my future.

“In that case, I have a suggestion: agree to be my partner for the pro-am,” I say, holding her gaze.

A range of emotions crosses her face. At first she seems confused, then there’s a little spark of something in her brown eyes, telling me she might be excited at the idea. But then, her face falls and she looks down at our hands again. “I can’t. My financial circumstances are still holding me back, even with the offer to stay here.”

“So let me take care of that,” I say.

She takes her hand back, glaring at me. I’ve struck a sensitive chord it seems, but I won’t drop this. It might be selfish of me, but I think it will help her, and that’s all that matters right now.

“I won’t take money from you. I’m not some charity case,” she says thickly, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

“You misunderstand me. I’m not in the habit of throwing money at people. I’ve earned every penny I have, and I understand the value of it all, more than you might think,” I say, staring her down. “What I mean is, there are other ways that I can help.”

“How?” Her freckled face is exhausted, and I can tell she doesn’t expect there to be a way for her to feel okay about this.

“If you join the pro-am, you will have all expenses paid. I’ll also pay for all your certification fees going forward until you get a LPGA tour card. And”—I meet her eyes, delivering the final perk—“you’ll have a spot on my team at the U.S. Open. I’ll make sure you get all the remaining hours you need for the certification.”

She takes a shaky breath, looking at me with wide eyes. “That’s⁠—”

“That’s the bare minimum you need to kickstart your career. And none of it is a charity case. If you want, you can pay me back when you win your first tour,” I straighten in my chair.

“When?” She asks, eyes glossing over.

I frown, not understanding the question. “When what?”

She shakes her head, eyes focusing on me again. A small dimple in her left cheek forms with her smile. “You said when I win my first tour. Not if.”