“That’s…” I run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, my mind racing. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
He lifts a shoulder. “The universe works in mysterious ways.”
“The U.S. Open. In her backyard.” I can picture it now. The media, the crowds, the biggest spotlight golf has to offer. And Leah will be right there.
“I need to buy a ring.” The words spill out before I’ve fully processed the thought, but as soon as I say them, I know they’re right. “A fucking gorgeous rock that’ll make her forget every logical reason she has to say no.”
“Whoa there, Prince Charming.” Rory holds up a hand. “Last I checked, you still haven’t won that major.”
“I’m going to win that one.” It’s as simple as that.
“And if, let’s say, you don’t?”
“Then I’ll have a few weeks to convince her I’m husband material. Even without the trophy.” I crush the water bottle in my hand as a plan forms in my head. “But I’m not walking away, not when I’m this close.”
Rory shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You realize what she’ll say when you show up early, right? Before you win and before your birthday?”
“That I’m premature again?” I can’t help but grin at the thought. “Yeah, probably. But she also said enthusiasm has its merits.”
Chapter fourteen
Leah | Eleven Months Later | Present Day
Yesterday, my carefully curated selection of golf-related books was arranged perfectly. Now, the display shelves are completely bare. It took less than a day for the golf fanatics descending on Starlight Bay to clean out every sports memoir, golf instruction, golf history, and even the handful of mystery and romance novels I’d sourced that featured a hint of golf.
I should be thrilled about the sales spike. Tabitha certainly is. Instead, we just opened for the day, and I’m focused on restocking the display with new releases or bestsellers that might appeal to the crowd. And trying not to think about the fact, somewhere in this chaos of media trucks and corporate tents and overly enthusiastic fans wearing visors at seven in the morning, Hays Granger is returning to Starlight Bay.
The bell above the door chimes, but I don’t look up. Yesterday, I spent the day cursing myself for the flutter of disappointment every time it was just another tourist browsing. Not that Hays,the ninth-ranked golfer in the world, will sweep intoHigh Tide Taleswhen he’s focused on The Open. I mean, let’s get real.
So today, I’m facing reality. I won’t get my hopes up. I mean, sure, he wore that mint green polo on a tournament Sunday last year. On my birthday. And, yeah, he seemed to be sending me a message during that trainwreck of a press conference, but the man’s got a major to prepare for.
I’m determined to pretend today is just another day in Starlight Bay, without the possibility that anything out of the ordinary happening. Even so, I put on mascara this morning. And lip gloss. And a spritz of perfume.
But as I slide another book onto the shelf, the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something’s off, but I can’t immediately put my finger on what it is. Maybe, the quiet. Usually customers, especially tourists, are in the middle of animated conversations when they step inside.
Or perhaps, it’s the prickling awareness that zips down my spine. A sensation that someone’s watching me. I turn slowly, my heart racing before my brain fully processes what I’m seeing.
Or rather, who.
Hays leans against a bookcase as if he owns the place, one arm slung across the top, the other tucked into the pocket of his shorts. He’s flashing that same perfect smile with the devastating dimples that’s been haunting my dreams for years. And he’s wearing a mint green polo.
Our eyes meet across twenty feet of hardwood, and suddenly, the air in the store feels charged. Electric. As if lightning is about to strike and I’m standing in the middle of an open field, holding a metal rod.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” His voice is pure velvet, just as smooth and dangerous as I remember.
I grip the edge of the display table. “And you’re premature,” I manage, pleased when my voice comes out steady. “Again.”
His laugh is low and rich, the sound wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. “I’m betting on points for enthusiasm.”
I cross my arms, trying to create some semblance of a barrier between us, though we both know it’s useless. He looks good. Better than good. He’s tan and toned and as magnetic of a force as ever.
But there’s something different about him, too. A…quiet confidence that’s replaced the cocky energy I remember.
It looks as if the years apart have changed us both.
“Plus,” he adds, pushing off the bookshelf and taking a step closer, “it’s an established fact I’m not great at following rules when it comes to you.”
“You made it this long.”
