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“Don't try to hide your true self, Atlas. You might feel frustrated, but you’re not alone. I think you're amazing, quirks and all.”
Her sincerity moves me, and my walls begin to crumble. Even the darkest corner of my heart begins to thaw at her sweetness.
“You're good for me, Celeste. You keep me grounded,” I say with a smile, unable to hide my attraction.
When a strand of hair falls into her eyes, I clench my fists to stop myself from tucking it behind her ear. I need to maintain control, but it isn't easy.
I let out a heavy sigh. Watching her hips sway, and those big breasts bounce as she swings on the putting green will be torture.
Celeste
Getting Atlas to open up and share his story felt like a turning point. Lying in bed later that evening, I replay the conversation when a sliver of guilt wedges firmly between my shoulder blades. It's only now I realize I should have asked Atlas what triggers the transformation.
CHAPTER 7
Celeste
Over the next few days, Atlas ensures he's out of the office as much as possible. He works from home or is vague about his whereabouts but keeps his distance.
Considering the depth of our conversation, his reaction is understandable, but it stirs a dull ache in my chest every time I catch a fleeting glimpse of him.
I regret inviting him to the golf day and realize it was a mistake. I'm determined to fix things between us by canceling the invitation.
When Atlas strides into the office towing a brand new set of clubs, it seems he has other plans.
“I'm sorry,” I blurt out before I can stop myself, “for making you uncomfortable. I don't mean for things to turn out like this.”
“I'm sorry, too, for pulling away.” After a brief pause, his face splits into a beaming grin. “If we're going to win this tournament, we need to practice.”
Atlas and I spend the next few days practicing as much as possible, even during breaks in the office. Atlas is patient, giving me tips on my stance and swing. He teaches me how to chip a ball into a coffee mug, and though I miss the shot nine times out of ten, it still counts as practice.
When he thinks I’m ready, he takes me to the golf course. As he explains the rules, I’m only half listening to what he’s saying because his voice is mesmerizing.
“Celeste, are you even listening to me?” Atlas asks. He’s standing on the green, his arms crossed, looking at me expectantly.
“Yes, boss.” I nod, embarrassed. “I can’t believe you have a handicap of +6. You’re like a golfing god!”
I try to compose myself so he won’t notice how flustered I am, but my heart is pounding, and I can’t focus.
“First, let’s work on your grip,” Atlas says.
“Okay.”
Atlas moves back to his position and turns to face me. “Hold it with your left hand. Rest your right hand in front of your left, ensuring your palms face each other.”
I do as he says and slice the air with the club as the pros do. So far, so good. “What’s next?”
“Let’s practice your swing.” Atlas goes first, tapping the ball ever so gently. It rolls straight into the hole.
I try to focus on the ball, take a swing, and miss. Twice. “Dammit,” I grumble.
Atlas takes a step back, observing my form. “Not bad, but you need to keep your head down and follow through.”
I try to concentrate, but I can feel his eyes on me. I sneak a glance over my shoulder and discover his warm brown eyes fixed on me. Instantly, a grin spreads across my face.
“Relax, don’t be nervous,” Atlas urges. “Just take a swing, Celeste. It’s all about the motion and consistency, remember?”
His voice is deep and rough, sending shivers down my spine. I grip the driver tightly and position myself, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach.
