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"Yes! I finally get some action. I mean, behind the bar. You know, pouring drinks."
"We get it," I say to shut her up, because obviously neither of us can stop our mouths from being stupid right now.
Grant and I drive off in the bev cart, leaving Ashton with Stefan at the Ninth Hole Bar.
"Let's get the obvious questions out of the way," he says, pretty much as soon as we're moving. "I'm eighteen. Senior at Printz-Lee. One sister, Faith, who's fourteen, and one brother, Garrett, who's eleven. We have a golden retriever named Max. My father's a principal at one of the local elementary schools, and my mother's a cardiac surgeon. We live in a small town you've never heard of in Connecticut. I have no idea what I want to do with my life other than travel and see as many places as I can befo
re I am forced to grow up. I'm on the crew team and play lacrosse. And well, that should cover the general biography."
I blink. He peers over at me in expectation. "Your turn."
"I'm Lana. Nothing else really to know beyond that."
"C'mon," he coaxes. "No brothers? Sisters?" I shake my head. "What year are you?"
"Junior." Then reluctantly add when he nods in encouragement, "I live with my mother in a small city you've never heard of in Massachusetts. No dogs, although this stray cat likes to pee under our front steps and it smells horrible." He lets out a laugh. "I've never been outside Sherling until I arrived here last Friday." His brows rise. "My mother does whatever she has to do to take care of us, as do I. And I'm not really a team player, so no sports."
This amuses him as well.
"Why are you here for the summer?" I ask him just before we reach the next group of golfers.
"My father thought it would be good to have some experience, working," he tells me uncomfortably. "I know, it sounds terrible because it's not that I didn't want to work, but they won't let me during the school year. And every other year, during the summers, we'd travel somewhere."
"Huh, I've been working since I was thirteen."
The golf cart stops a little harder than I'm sure he intended. He's looking at me with a bewildered expression when the golfers approach the cart.
When we take off again, I decide to say, "I'm not a private school kid. I wouldn't be here if someone else weren't paying for it. I don't come from money. And I have no idea what I want to do with my life, and I'm not worried about it."
His mouth turns up. "I like everything about you."
"Even my honesty?"
"Especially your honesty." After we stop for a guy to putt and are waived on, he says, "And as much as I try not to lie, I do. But I won't ever lie to you. I think it's only fair."
"That's your curse talking," I tease.
"You and your curses," he says with a chuckle. "You'll have to explain them to me another time."
We come to a stop next to a group of guys, younger than most of the golfers by at least four decades. I'd guess they're in their late twenties. But they're acting like they're still in high school with the way they talk shit and jostle each other.
"I'll have Johnny Walker Black on the rocks"--one of the more pompous players orders from Grant--"and a bottle of water." He then proceeds to slide his hand along the back of my shorts to cup my ass.
I freeze.
Grant must sense my tension because he stops mid-scoop to look across the cart at me. His eyes tighten, registering something's wrong, even though he can't see exactly what from his position.
And then the guy squeezes.
Fury licks up my spine. It must be transparent on my face from the shock I see in Grant's eyes. But before he can react, I reach behind me and take a hold of the guy's thumb and twist it around like I'm trying to flip him onto his back using only his digit. His entire body contorts, trying to gain some relief from the wrenching. He hollers out in pain.
"See this body?" I growl into his ear between clenched teeth.
He squeals when I tug a little more.
"It's not yours to touch."
"What the hell?" one of his friends calls out when he realizes what's happening.
