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She let out a satisfied sound when it pinged off the mini flagpole and fell into the cup.
“Okay, seriously.” I’d never been so impressed and annoyed at the same time. “How the fuck?”
She bent and retrieved her ball, and when she straightened, she flashed a sheepish smile. Like she was embarrassed by how good she was. The person who should be embarrassed was me.
I fucking hated losing.
“Do you play a lot of golf?” It was less of a question from me and more of an accusation.
She shrugged. “Not really.”
My grip tightened on my putter. “Then, why are you so good at this?”
Why are you better than me, was what I really wanted to ask.
Her eyebrows tugged together as she struggled to put it into words. “I don’t know. It’s kind of always been like this. I think about what I need to do to succeed. Every time I throw a dart, or make a shot in pool, or putt . . . I evaluate what I could do to make the next attempt even better.”
Was she kidding? That wasn’t magic, or even special. “Everyone does that.”
At least, I did.
“Well, I visualize,” she said. “I try really hard, and I want it really bad, and that usually makes it happen for me.” Her expression shifted to a bashful one. “But it doesn’t work for everything. Like, serious sports? Forget it. I’m terrible. If we were playing regular golf right now, you’d have no problem beating me. But the games anyone can play—those are the ones where I kick ass.”
Well, she wasn’t kicking my ass just yet. I was only a few strokes behind, but if this continued? I was going to lose. I needed something to throw her off her game.
Sydney stood off to the side of the fairway, watching me as I dropped my lime green ball onto the artificial turf and took my shot. Except I misjudged the amount of force to use, meaning my ball carried too much speed over the hill and gained even more as it rolled down. It blew right past the hole, ricocheting off the stone outline at the back of the fairway, and miraculously rolled back toward the pin.
“Lucky,” she commented when my ball dropped into the hole.
“No, I’m just that good.”
Like I’d planned it that way, even though it was total bullshit. I bent and retrieved my ball, then set my gaze on her. “Hey, question for you. How the hell are you still a virgin?”
She jolted and glanced around to see if anyone had overheard me, but no one had. I’d been careful. I didn’t want to embarrass her, or for her to think she should feel shame about this. All I hoped to do was fluster her. To give myself a tiny chance at not losing.
Plus, this question had been eating at me ever since she’d confessed it. I couldn’t figure out how it was possible. Her parents weren’t that religious, and she didn’t seem to be either, so surely that wasn’t the reason. But her folks had a weird hold over her. It was possible they’d locked her up in some sort of metaphorical chastity belt.
“What?” she whispered.
“You’re gorgeous,” I said, stating a simple fact. “Plus, you suck cock like a champ.” Her eyes widened and she froze, but I kept going. “Are you waiting for marriage?”
She blinked her stunned eyes, looking off-kilter. “No.”
I knew it was none of my business, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Then, why?”
She held her putter with both hands, and they tightened on the grip. It took her a lifetime to find the words. “Maybe I haven’t found the right guy yet.”
I pushed out a breath, recalling what she’d said in the car—how she’d always imagined I’d be the one to take her virginity. And maybe that was true, but that didn’t explain the past twelve months. I’d pushed her away after our fucking incredible kiss last year, instead of hooking up with her.
Only a fool would continue to wait for me after that.
I hadn’t waited for her.
No, you just thought about her all the damn time.
I shot her a look and tilted my head. “You need to get better at lying if you’re going to be bad.”
Alarm spiked in her expression. Busted.
