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ChapterOne
If dread is ground glass shredding your stomach, then I’m digesting a set of eight crystal goblets. As I ready my opening shot on the seventeenth hole, Lanie Blesch’s giggles rise from the golf cart parked alongside the tee box. Aglow in her fifteen minutes of fame as the spokesmodel for everything from moisturizer to orthotic inserts, Lanie flirts with abandon. Her target and cart buddy this morning is my boyfriend, Treat Graham.
This woman who holds the gold medal for stellar BMI is everything I’m not—tall and curvy with negative body fat in all the right places. I flick one strawberry blond braid over my shoulder and wonder if I could pull off Lanie’s fluffy chocolate bob with strands of amber peeking through at strategically stylish locations. Next to her overflowing sexuality, I come off like Treat’s tomboy sidekick.
When Lanie adds another lipstick smudge to the collar of Treat’s gaudy, neon pink polo, I take a step back from the tee and drop my lethal glare to the grass before anyone notices. It’s hard to justify visually disintegrating Lanie since she has no clue the man next to her is off limits. Per an agreement I’m rapidly losing patience with, my two-year relationship with Treat is a secret.
Bobby Provost, who shares my golf cart, takes a break from destroying every blade of grass on the tee box with his practice swings. He sidles up next to me. “Gillian, you okay?”
Ironic question from the man who’s responsible for half the pulverized goblet glass sitting in my digestive system. I toss Bobby a smile that would register as less than ten percent genuine to anyone who knows me. “Rethinking my club.”And the gag order on my relationship.
A gust of wind knocks my newly acquiredChieftain’s Sonbaseball cap off my head. As the showrunner bringing the most anticipated series of historical romance novels in a billion years to television, Bobby is a swag dispenser. Everyone in this charity golf tournament is outfitted withChieftain’s Sonlogo caps, jerseys, and metallic water bottles.
“I’ve got it,” says Bobby, chasing my cap as it skids down the rise next to the tee. Definitely a gentleman, for more reasons than one. Thankfully, for the last sixteen holes he has diplomatically ignored the giant elephant riding between us in the golf cart. Nearly a year ago, our mutual literary agent approached me with Bobby’s interest for me to possibly join the writing staff ofThe Chieftain’s Son. An opportunity so unexpected and frightening it came from whatever territory is out beyond left field.
Treat’s words ring in my head from our discussion about whether or not I should even entertain Bobby’s request to take a meeting.
“Why put yourself through it, Babe? You’ve never written a script in your life. Face it, Gilly, you are master of the short game. Copywriting for my company is your sweet spot.”
Treat is blunt, but I know he only has my best interest at heart. Raw truth—my agent couldn’t sell my book; therefore, I live in the stable reality of being the reigning queen of clothing blurbs for Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear.
I shake out my hand, numb from gripping the club too tight. If penning catalogue copy is my career, at least it involves writing. Is the definition of a career what you do to pay the bills when you’re two years shy of thirty?
When Bobby Provost, gentleman, and I did meet face to face this morning, I managed what I hoped was an appreciative “thank you” for even considering me for the position on his show, followed by an apology that things didn’t work out. We shook hands and Treat whisked him away to talk business, but something about the look Bobby’s jade-colored eyes shot in my direction didn’t feel like a period at the end of a sentence.
Thankfully, in less than an hour, Treat will finish selling Bobby on the crossover marketing benefits if our companies pair up. The Irish Country Lass clothing line will shoot on Bobby’s company property in Ireland, featuring show locations.The Chieftain’s Sonwill get some dandy print exposure for its premier season.
Bobby waves my rescued cap like he’s starting the Indy 500. “Victory.”
“Good catch,” I say, fitting the hat back on my head as Bobby salutes.
I clear my head by ripping a handful of blades from the grass and let the wind carry them to calculate my shot. The faster we play these last two holes, the faster I’ll avoid any talk with Bobby about his offer, and the faster I can pull the pin on thewhat the hellgrenade I plan to heave at Treat for his flirting overdrive with Lanie.
My tee shot hits the fairway dead center. To my delight, momentum carries it forward a gratifying distance.
“Brilliant,” says Bobby, applauding. “One fairway shot, a chip, putt, and you’re the birdie queen of the day.” He pulls off his own logo baseball cap and trains his hair back. “How many so far?”
“Nine birdies,” I say, and head back to our cart. I’m behind the wheel before Bobby finishes his tee shot.
He pops onto the seat next to me. “I chunked it. Is it driving you nuts to play with a duffer like me?”
I muster a smile. “You’re far from a duffer. If we didn’t have Lanie and Treat dragging us down, we’d own this tournament.”
Bobby is the type that perpetually moves and chatters. Luckily, a sweet, candy-coated personality keeps his hummingbird vibe from being irritating. He’s the geeky big brother that all my friends would confide in. Treat actually expected me to flirt with him. I’m a good little soldier for Lawson Graham Premier Sportwear and loyal girlfriend, but I have my limits. It’s awkward enough spending this much time with Bobby after rejecting his job offer. Given our age gap, which has to be at least ten years, any attempt at flirting would reek of insincerity. Treat’s the game player, not me.
Treat and Lanie blow by in their cart, barely missing ours. She drives like an idiot, trashing shrubbery as she rips down the cart path. The flirty laughs between them threaten to bring up my breakfast burrito. Treat doesn’t even wave at me.
The jerk can’t spare one measly, reassuring smile. Less than six months ago, we were together in Oregon eating his mother’s homemade chicken marsala while his stepdad reminded him daily that he’d be a fool to ever let me go.
On the drive back to L.A., Treat professed a dozen times how much he adored me.Adored, not loved. Here in reality,adoredtranslates to undercover relationship. Treat made it clear from the beginning that if our situation ever became breaking news at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear, we’d get the axe. I’m certain that axe would only swing my way since Lawson Graham is Treat’s father. Lucky me. I get to carry on a hush-hush relationship and watch my boyfriend play gigolo every time Daddy needs someone to court a spokesmodel or female designer.
A pang of disappointment stabs as I relive the joy of living as a non-secret couple with Treat up in Oregon. People take handholding and quick kisses for granted.
After his next shot, Bobby lopes over to me like a deer. The entire cart lurches when he leaps in. “Well, that drive made up for my previous chunkage.”
My face heats. “Full disclosure, I missed it.”
“I’m sure I can repeat it—never.” He laughs.
