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“Shit.”
“That’s okay,” he says and walks past me. He bends over and picks it up. The shorts highlight the muscles in his thighs.
“Um, are you allowed to move my ball?”
“Yes,” he says and puts it back down in front of me. “Try again.”
“I’m almost positive this is against the rules.”
“Isn’t this your first time playing?” he says and takes a few steps back. “How would you know the rules?”
I turn to him with my most withering glare. “Yes, but I know some things. Like hand-on-ball is verboten in most games.”
“Eden,” he says, eyes steady on mine. “We’ll make our own rules.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll try again, then.”
I do. It goes better this time, and while the ball doesn’t soar in a straight arc like his, it ambles down the hill halfway to his.
“That was excellent.”
I chuckle, leaning against my club. “Liar.”
“For your second-ever attempt, it was pretty damn good.” He climbs back into the golf cart, taking the passenger seat. “Come on, why don’t you try driving the cart, too.”
I get in the driver’s seat, unable to stop my grin. “Really?”
He pulls his cap further down and leans back, stretching his long legs as much as there’s room. “Nothing like being chauffeured.”
I laugh and press down on the accelerator pedal. Golf, it turns out, might not be such a boring sport after all, and in this beautiful location? I might even find myself enjoying it.
We make it to hole seven before disaster truly strikes. He’s two points under par, and I’m about fourteen thousand over. But I’m soldiering on, and Phillip doesn’t show any signs of being frustrated by my frequent mishaps.
It’s surprising. Somehow, he’d struck me as the kind of person that wouldn’t be described as patient. After all, his pacing while talking on the phone, his constant emailing, his clear passion for his job… His own self-proclaimed desire to win in every facet of life.
But here, he doesn’t let out a single disparaging comment.
UntilI manage to hit my ball into the sand trap. It rolls beautifully off the green and into the sandy depths of a large bunker.
“Oh no,” I say. “That one hasn’t happened, yet.”
I’d hit a ball into a tree—twice—and accidentally thrown my club—once. But no bunkers.
“It’s a fun one,” Phillip says beside me.
“You sound sarcastic. Are you being sarcastic?”
“I would never.”
“Okay, so you are. What club should I use?”
“If you want, you could just lift it out.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He gazes serenely back at me, face calm and eyes hidden behind the dark sunglasses.
“Those aren’t the proper rules,” I say.
He lifts a single shoulder in a shrug. “We haven’t really adhered to them so far.”
