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“Thanks, Gail, you’ve been most helpful,” my date praises. “I’ll have a tall beer and Kitty Cat will have a dish of cream.”
I slap his arm and order wine. He tacks on an order of mozzarella sticks, buffalo bites, and a quesadilla.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Starved.” He leans past his barstool and comes closer to say, “I’ll share. But only because I like you.”
I attempt an eye roll but fail. He’s irrationally good-looking for such a cad.
“You didn’t tell me I could’ve brought my own clubs,” I complain as he selects a driver from the bin next to our computer screen. Evidently Fox is “Player 1.”
“That’s because I don’t want you cheating. You have to come out here like the rest of us and hit blind.”
He takes his stance at a square of green Astroturf. Several other guests are doing the same, and the sound of clubs hitting balls is interspersed with laughter and talking.
It’s definitely a different way to play golf, but I admit it looks fun.
Thwack!
His ugly swing is back, but it’s impossible not to admire his athletic form or the way his biceps bunch. He cracks the ball so far I swear it’s going to soar over the net and ding one of the cars in the parking lot. It doesn’t, making its home at the back of the course and sliding into a hole that’s worth one thousand points.
“Seriously?” I’m at a massive disadvantage. I can’t hit that far. If I want a thousand points, I’ll have to be precise and aim for the center of the giant circles. I immediately start calculating how to score more points than him.
“Jealous?” He saunters my way. “You can’t always win, you know. Haven’t you learned that in life yet?” The second it’s out of his mouth, his cocky grin fades some.
I ignore him and pick out a lady’s club.
“Kitty Cat.” A warm palm lands on my shoulder. “You know I wasn’t referring to your situation with East, right?”
I glare.
“West? Southeast? Why is his name so hard?” He stops pretending to be obtuse and grins. “Let’s drop the perfectionism and have a good time. Let your hair down.”
That tenderness again. It throws me off, so I change the subject. “How can you play golf after your shoulder injury? Doesn’t it hurt?”
He rolls his right shoulder. “Sometimes, but it’s better to move it.”
I nod slowly, having a belated realization. “That’s why your swing is ugly.”
A frown bisects his brow. “Thanks a lot.”
“Your backswing.” It makes total sense. “You tuck your shoulder to protect it. Use your hips to help with the momentum. It’s ugly but effective.” I pat his scruffy jaw. “Just like your face.”
I let out a squeak of surprise when his arm lashes around my waist. He leans in, bowing my body back. My leg is pressed against one of his and my torso and my left boob is smashed against his solid chest. I grip his arm to keep from toppling over, finding my breath as his blue eyes drill into mine.
“’Scuse me,” he says, before sliding his club into the rack from whence it came. Then he straightens, sets me on my feet, and leaves me to take my swing.
“Effective.” He drops the ball on the Astroturf at my feet. “Your turn.”
I take one practice swing before hitting my little electronic ball right into the center hole of the neon pink area. It’s only five hundred points, but I can do this all day. I make sure to tell Barrett as much.
Chapter 10
Barrett
Kitty Cat’s cute when she has a few in her.
I’ve never seen her quite this loose. She’s been jabbering since we left Hole in One about how golfing indoors was “way more fun” than she would’ve imagined. She’s also been giving me tips about my swing, which I find even cuter. Whenever she’s explaining how to achieve a goal, she gets this serious look on her face and moves her hands a lot. The art of success is one Catarina Everhart has mastered. Weirdly enough I don’t think she cares that I won both rounds.
