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“Oh, shit,” Cecelia curses.
Chocolates spill out. Chocolates are everywhere.
Every last one of them is a Mason Raker.
44
MASON
I’ve leftbehind the cold and grit and smell of New York City for Arizona. It’s a beautiful sunny day, seventy degrees out, and I’m standing on a golf course with my sober coach Andrew, my friend Maxwell Lancaster, and Maxwell’s brother Chase.
And I’m hating everything about this.
Chase is there to look into doing a marketing campaign for the resort town where the golf course is located. Maxwell and Chase’s wives are hanging out at the spa, and their kids are at the world-class kids’ clubhouse.
The golf course is brand new and beautiful, the grass is soft, and the clubhouse is top notch.
I’d rather be anywhere with Rowan.
“You look miserable,” Maxwell observes.
Chase nods. “Yep. He looks like he’d rather be getting a prussic acid enema.” Chase’s golf bag says,I’ll play till the Bitter End. He and his wife live in the tiny town of Bitter End, South Carolina, which they have successfully turned into a massively popular resort destination.
“Thanks for that visual,” I grumble, and take a swig of bottled water.
“So, what gives?” Andrew asks.
“Hold on,” I sigh. It’s my turn. I walk up to the tee with my Honma Black Berens driver. I adjust my stance. I adjust my grip.
Rowan’s face flashes in front of me. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Has she already started dating someone else?
I swing and miss. I literally miss the fucking ball.
Maxwell stifles a snicker.
“Thank you, supportive rehab buddy,” I growl.
Maxwell flashes a wry grin. “I’m there for you, friend. And my God, do you look like you need help.”
I swing again. The ball sails through air—about ten feet. Then it falls to the ground.
Chase, Maxwell, and Andrew are shaking their heads, smothering their laughter.
A drink cart glides by us, and the beautiful cart driver slows to a stop. “Can I get you boys anything?”
We all shake our heads. Chase does not have a drinking problem, but he’s very supportive of his brother and doesn’t drink when he’s around him.
“My goodness, aren’t you Mason Raker?” she flashes a white-toothed smile at me.
I shake my head.
“Really? You look just like him.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I get that sometimes.”
“So, are you doing anything after the game?”
“Hanging with my friends here.” I give her a blank look.
