Page 161 of The Dixon Rule

I throw my head back and laugh. “Okay—one, I’m using that line from now on. And two, I’m pretty sure your father would rip my tongue out if I ever said that to you and amputate my hands if I ever touched you. Therefore, I will only instruct you from a discreet distance.”

Blake flicks up an eyebrow. “Coward.”

“Coward,” Diana echoes tauntingly.

“Really, Dixon? You want me to put my hands on another woman and whisper seductively to her?”

“In the spirit of golf, I would accept it.”

I snort. “All right, pull out that driver. Let’s work on your swing.”

Diana reaches into the women’s bag.

“I’ve been told the key to a perfect swing is all in the grip.” I wink at her. “And I know for a fact you’ve got a phenomenal grip.”

Blake sighs. “I know you’re talking about handjobs, and I don’t like it.”

I shrug. “I’m not sorry.”

“He never is,” Diana tells her.

I stand next to Diana and show her how to properly hold the driver. When she mimics the grip I demonstrate, I reach down to adjust her fingers.

“There. Perfect. Now widen your stance. You want your feet shoulder-width apart. Relax your shoulders too.”

I turn to Blake to offer the same advice—in time to see her drive the ball a hundred and forty yards.

My jaw drops. “What the hell, Logan?”

“Oh, I’m not bad at golf,” she says with a smirk. “I just said I hate it.”

“Don’t ever deceive me again.”

Laughing, she places another ball on her tee. Seeing as how she doesn’t need my help, I leave her to it.

I set Diana’s ball for her and then step back. “It’s all about timing and coordination,” I advise. “Keep your eye on the ball. You got this.”

She doesn’t got it.

At least not right away. Diana shanks her first swing, sending tufts of grass flying all over my shoes. But the failure only fuels her. Suddenly she gets that adorable furrow in her brow, the one that tells me she’s about to overcome a challenge or die trying.

She nails her second swing, driving the ball about sixty yards.

“Did you see that?” Diana spins around. “That was beautiful.”

“It was beautiful,” I say, fighting a smile. “Now let’s work on your distance.”

She throws her arms up in a victory pose, and I notice a few guys in their mid to late twenties blatantly checking her out. Yeah, my fake girlfriend’s hot.

If I’m being honest, though…this isn’t feeling very fake anymore. Sure, we’re friends with benefits, but those benefits are starting to extend beyond the sexual variety. We’re constantly texting. Calling each other. Dancing together. Hell, I brought her along for my last afternoon of me-time before the hockey season is officially underway. And not only she is not complaining about spending her morning at the driving range but she’s making a sincere effort to learn.

The only other woman I’ve taken golfing is Lynsey. Yes, my ex used to do me the honor of coming with me once, maybe twice a year if I was lucky. And one of those times was for my birthday because I begged her to play eighteen holes with me.

I remember that birthday vividly. Lynsey sat in the golf cart most of the time checking her phone, totally missing when I nailed a hole-in-one on the course. She’d mustered up some enthusiasm at my proud roar, but I could tell she didn’t give a shit.

Now, I stand here envisioning myself hitting a hole-in-one with Diana on the green beside me. Christ. Dixon would probably perform an entire cheer routine to celebrate my achievement. The certainty of that elicits a rush of pleasure.

Oh man. My chest is tight with emotion now. I’m such a fuckin’ sap.

---