But, since you broke the rules, I figure I’m entitled to a little payback. Your enclosed ‘note’ was not only classic, over-the-top sexy Hays, it also had exactly the effect I’m sure you intended. Which meant I had to take matters into my own hands, considering you weren’t here to handle my situation yourself.
So in addition to planting that picture of me in your mind, I thought you might enjoy some Hays Granger fanfic. One possible way that night might have played out if I’d said yes toyour hotel invitation. Because, the truth is, I’ve thought about that evening more times than I care to admit.
Happy birthday, hotshot.
- Leah
P.S. This letter changes nothing regarding our no-contact rule. Oh, and I hope your wrist heals quickly. I’m sure you have very important…activities…besides golf that require a full range of motion.
The postscript nearly kills me. She’d fit right in with the jokers in my living room and hold her own. Even she’s not above teasing me about my injury and how it’s impacting my needs.
Behind me, my friends are still jabbering something about the playoff race and FedEx Cup standings, but their voices fade to background noise as I flip to the first handwritten page.
Jesus fucking Christ. I figured Leah could write, but this? After a single paragraph, I’m convinced this is by far the sexiest thing I’ve ever read. Internet porn’s got nothing on this, and not just because it features me. It’s a glimpse into Leah’s deepest, darkest desires. And knowing the brilliant, guarded woman, who fact-checks casual conversation, has been having dirty thoughts like this and took the time to send me what equates to aLeah Sullivan Course Management Planmakes it infinitely hotter than any fantasy I could’ve ever dreamed up.
My cock is harder than trying to read the greens at TPC Sawgrass, straining against my jeans in a way that’s both painful and desperate. I need to get to my room, need privacy, need to do something about this situation. Now. But my legs feel like they’re made of concrete.
“Granger?” Rory’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “You okay, man? You look—”
“Fine,” I croak, trying to shove the letter back into the envelope before he can read a word. I back toward the hallwaythat leads to the master suite, the letter clutched against my chest like a lifeline. “I’m fine. I just need to…make a phone call.”
I turn and practically run down the hallway.
“Is he okay?” I hear Marcus ask, setting a glass down on the kitchen counter.
“He’s going to be just fine,” Rory answers with a chuckle.
With more force than necessary, I slam the double doors shut behind me and turn the lock. I need to get these jeans off. Except my fucking wrist has other plans. The button fights me like a stubborn lie in deep rough, my good hand shaking with need.
I manage to get the zipper down, but the fuckers are so are tight getting them off one-handed while sporting the erection of a lifetime proves to be more challenging than any golf shot I’ve ever attempted.
But when I do and open that envelope again, for the first time in weeks, I’m grinning as if I just sank a hole-in-one.
Chapter eleven
Hays | Five Months Later
The champagne flute in my hand might as well be filled with battery acid. I force another smile as Sean and Nicole glide across the dance floor, lost in their own world, while Ed Sheeran croons about perfect love.
The Hawaiian sunset paints everything in gold and pink. String lights twinkle overhead, setting the mood for the December wedding, yet I’m standing at the edge of the celebration, cursing the fact I’m here alone.
Sean dips Nicole, and her laugh carries on the breeze. The same laugh my brother fell head-over-heels for more than four years ago. I take another sip of champagne and immediately spit it out in the sand. The bubbles remind me of sharing that snagged bottle with Leah, and suddenly, the Veuve tastes like regret and missed opportunities.
“You know, for someone who delivered a very entertaining best man speech twenty minutes ago, you look absolutely miserable.” My mom approaches, elegant in her navy dress, but flashing a knowing smile that sounds alarm bells.
“I’m not miserable.”
“You’re not working the room and charming every woman in sight. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’ve turned down three different bridesmaids who’ve asked you to dance.”
She steps closer, straightening the lei around my neck with the same gentle precision she used on me when I was eight and fidgeting in my Sunday best. “Dance with your mother?”
It’s not really a question, and I would never refuse her anything, even if I wanted to. I abandon my glass and offer her my arm, leading her onto the dance floor as the song shifts to something slower. The familiar scent of her perfume, the same one she’s worn my entire life, makes my chest tight.
“So,” she says as we begin to sway, “are you going to tell me what’s really going on, or do I have to guess?”
Shit.
“And don’t think ‘nothing’ will fool anyone, sir. Especially not me.”
