“Was it?” He takes a deliberate bite of the nuclear pad thai without even flinching. “Because I’m starting to think, maybe, you’re all talk when it comes to handling heat.”
The challenge in his voice flares something competitive in my chest. “Oh, really?”
“Really.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to that velvet tone that makes my stomach flip. “Though I have to say, watching you get all flustered and pink is pretty entertaining. Makes me wonder what other kinds of heat will make you react like that.”
I nearly choke on the milk. “You’re terrible.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re trying to prove a point.” He reaches over to brush a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “But maybe, stick to the mild curry, for now. I need you to be able to taste things properly this week.”
The gentle praise combined with his protective tone does something to me I don’t want to examine too closely. Because when he takes charge, but in a way that shows he genuinely cares about my wellbeing, that makes me want to… What? Please him? The thought should alarm me, but instead, it just warms me all over.
I snatch up my fork. “Are we doing dinner again this week?”
His smile turns wicked. “Among other things.”
I tuck into the milder curry, filing away that hint in the back of my mind.
“So…” he says, twirling pad thai. “Tell me about your writing. Last time we talked, you said you’d been feeling less than inspired.”
I nearly choke on a bite of chicken. He remembers that? I clear my throat. “It’s been going better lately.”
“I read your debut novel. Cover to cover in one sitting.”
My heart stops.
“You did?” I mean, I’d figured he’d read the parts I flagged for him, but the whole thing?
“It was incredible. The way you write emotion, the chemistry between your characters…” He leans closer. “It wasn’t as good as the scene you sent me for my birthday, but I’m glad that was for my eyes only.”
“But that scene was just…raw fantasy. No plot structure, no character development, no—” I pause, realizing I’m basically admitting it was straight erotica.
“It had a happy ending.”
Oh my god, did he just—
“What are you working on now?”
I freeze, hesitating, because the truth is my second manuscript features a pro golf hero and a small-town girl. The story was easy to write because despite the conflict, there was no doubt it would end in an actual happily ever after. Unlike real life, where my ending—our ending—is still not guaranteed, despite the pact. “Just some ideas. Nothing concrete yet.”
He studies my face as if he’s trying to read between the lines, but thankfully, he doesn’t push.
“Speaking of projects,” I say, grateful for the chance to redirect, “I caught part of that press conference where you mentioned starting a foundation. Something about helping young golfers?”
His expression shifts, the playful teasing replaced by something more serious. “You were watching my press conferences?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I may have kept tabs on your career. You know, just to see how the whole ‘winning a major’ thing was progressing.”
“Just professional interest, huh?” His smile is knowing, but he lets me off the hook. “The foundation is… It’s something I’ve been working on for a while. Kids from single-parent homes, foster families, kids being raised by grandparents or other relatives. Golf gave me everything after my dad died, but not everyone has the support system I had.”
The passion in his voice makes my chest tight. “That’s incredible, Hays.”
“We launched six months ago. Already have twelve kids lined up for the first round of scholarships.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see how much this means to him.
“Your foundation is named after your dad, isn’t it?”
He nods, his voice quieter now. “The Michael Granger Foundation.”
“He’d be proud of what you’re doing.”
