It’s such a low sound that at first I think she’s sobbing. Her shoulders are shaking. But then I realize she’s not crying. She’scackling, and the peals of laughter are racking her body. She lifts her head again and looks at me, and I swear, it’s like this woman is single-handedly changing the beat of my heart.
“You looked”—she pants between laughter—“Like. You saw. A ghost!” She bursts into a renewed bout of giggles.
“It may as well have been. That bird came out of nowhere! It had those crazed, beady eyes.” I shudder. “I hate birds!”
“It was a seagull, Holland. Nothing vicious about them.”
“You don’t know that! It looked ready to eat me.”
She laughs louder.
I vaguely register that we’ve drawn a crowd, but I couldn’t care less. I’ve discovered a new plan for my life, and it’s to make Mallory Walsh laugh. Because this is priceless. I shift my arms so they’re out from under her and rest them against her sides, mostly so I can enjoy this position while it lasts.
And you know what? This right here might be my new favorite position. Write it down.
Mallory must mistake my shift for discomfort instead of optimal positioning, because she immediately sobers. “Oh gosh. Holland, am I hurting you? The Grand Masters.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. Cold and wet. But fine.”
She’s already scrambling up, and the little water-nymph spell we were under thanks to the seagull, who I’ve already determined is my best wingman—pun fully intended—to date, is broken.
Even though I have a feeling the sensation of Mallory’s body splayed against mine is going to be seared into my memory for a long time to come.
17
Chicken Soup for the Soul
Mallory
“You look awful, Mal.”
My mom leans a concerned face toward the camera, filling up my entire phone screen.
“I feel awful,” I admit. I slouch against the siding of the clubhouse. I’m waiting for Holland to get here so we can have our practice, but I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through it.
The head cold that I felt coming on earlier this week seems to have burst forth and is waging war against me. I’m sure the dip in the stream at the mini-golf course yesterday didn’t help my cause.
I massage my temples because thinking aboutthatis not helping me feel better. It was actually a fun date. The girls and I had a good time. Holland was remarkably normal and, dare I say, even pleasant to be around.
I dropped my guard. I’m not proud of it, but I did.
And the whole time, the cameras were rolling.
I shudder—literally—to think of how I’ll come across when that episode ofMost Eligible Misterairs. Completely unprofessional, for starters.
“I wish you were here so I could take care of you.” My mom’s soothing voice draws my attention.
“I’ll be fine.” I muster up a smile. “I took some cold medicine this morning. I’m glad it’s this week and not next week. Gotta be ready to go for the Grand Masters.”
My mom nods. “How’s Holland feeling about that?”
“Fine, I think. It’s hard to say. He’s got a lot on his mind.”
I like watching you have fun.
The tiny message he scribbled on my scorecard flies tomymind.
Even though he’s juggling dating seven women—well, six, because I can’t include myself in that number—and managing a demanding practice and golf schedule, he still took the time to do something personal…for me.
