She takes a shaky breath, and I watch her struggle with the concept of forever. Can’t blame her, given what I know now.
“Not all stories get happy endings, hotshot.”
There’s that nickname again. And the doubt I’ll erase from her mind, no matter how long it takes, but for now, I let it pass. “Ladies first.”
She sets up a ball and grasps the putter lining up for the shot. “Let me try the full Hays Granger routine.” She takes exactly three practice swings, adjusts her grip twice, then goes completely still for a beat—nailing my timing to the second—before putting.
My jaw drops. The impression is so spot on it’s almost unsettling.
The ball rolls wide, hitting the wall with a soft thud.
“Jesus Christ, Leah.” I stare at her, my chest tight. “How long have you been watching me play?”
She fiddles with the putter. “I may have caught a tournament or two over the years.”
“A tournament or two?” I step closer, studying her face. “You just mimicked my pre-shot routine like you’ve memorized it frame by frame.”
“Maybe, I have,” she admits quietly, and the admission hits me hard.
“Well, you’ve got the routine down, but your execution needs work.” I move behind her, covering her hands with mine on the club, unable to resist the excuse to touch her. “Like this.”
I press my chest against her back, breathing in the intoxicating floral scent that’s been driving me crazy, now mixed with myown cologne from my shirt she’s wearing. The combination does something dangerous to my self control.
Her body relaxes into mine.
“I can’t concentrate when you’re touching me like that.”
“Then my strategy is working perfectly.”
She elbows me playfully, and I step back with a laugh. She lines up another putt, and I watch her concentrate. This time, when she swings, her ball rolls straight but stops just short of the glass.
“Close,” I say, trying to keep the pride out of my voice and failing.
“That was sabotage on your part,” she accuses, pointing the putter at me.
“That was poor concentration under pressure. Very telling about your mental game.”
“My mental game is fine, thank you very much. Unlike some people, I don’t need to grip my shaft in front of an audience to prove my skills.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Did she just—? The guileless expression on her face while delivering that line is going to be the death of me. “Did you just—”
“Make an innocent golf observation? Absolutely.” She bats her eyelashes with fake innocence that fools absolutely no one. “Why, what did you think I meant?”
I open my mouth then close it again. She’s playing with me, and I’m torn between calling her bluff and letting her think she’s gotten away with it.
“That’s what I thought.” Her grin is pure triumph. “You know, most guys try to play it cool. Keep some mystery.”
“Why would I want to be mysterious when being direct got me this far?” I step closer, unable to resist the pull of her energy.
“This far being what, exactly?”
I let my gaze rake over her, taking in the way my T-shirt falls to her midthigh, the way her hair is still mussed from earlier. “Half-dressed in your living room while you’re wearing my shirt and trying to pretend you don’t want me to kiss you again.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe, but I’ve got excellent follow-through.” I flash her my most devastating grin. “And I always finish what I start.”
Even as I say it, doubt creeps in. Is that what she needs to hear? Or am I pushing too hard, too fast? Maybe, she needs to know I can be patient, not just persistent.
