Page 15 of The Perfect Putt

Chapter nine

Ellie Hart

It’s been two days since I’ve had a full conversation with Miles. After he left during our discussion about his mother’s emails, he resorted to assigning most of my tasks over text. I’ve seen him in passing, but he always cuts our talks short. He hasn’t teased me, or so much as smirked in my presence. It’s disconcerting to go from one version of him to another, but maybe this is for the best. It’s much easier to manage an aloof boss than one who seems intent on poking holes in my composure.

Since he’s been absent, I’ve gone through these two days fairly peacefully. I haven’t even been asked to do anything terrible like attempt to organize his picture-perfect fridge. It’s been fine, if a little boring. Today, however, I feel as though things are going to change. We’re going to be in a car together the entire day. Our first stop is a café in Cape Alamanda which will take close to forty-five minutes to get to. Then we’ll attend a few meetings around the city–including a dinner at a five-star restaurant–before heading back to Coastal Cove. All my expenses will be covered, and I’ll be paid for the overtime hours. This would be great if I were driving myself instead of being cramped in my sports car of choice–an Audi A8.

I take a long drink of my caramel iced coffee–careful not to spill in a luxury vehicle more expensive than my house–as I turn into the parking lot of Crescent Beach Country Club. It’s probably unwise to drink caffeine when I’m already on edge, but the prospect of going without coffee was too daunting. So, I tip back the cup and hope that the serotonin the taste gives cancels out the cortisol that the caffeine adds. Or something like that. I’m clearly not a scientist.

Miles rode with his caddy, Fitz, to the club today to do some training at the driving range. I dropped my Kia off at his house, and was instructed to choose whatever car I wanted to drive today and meet them at the range. He didn’t outright say that it would be embarrassing to pull up to these meetings in my car, but he also didn’t say otherwise. I made sure he knew I was offended on behalf of my car, even if I understood that you could buy several of my cars for the price of one of his.

So, I walked into his giant garage and chose a tiny sports car, much to my dismay. The only car off limits was the vintage baby blue Ford Bronco. I was highly disappointed that he doesn’t take that one into the city, because I would have for sure chosen it over this one. It’s not that this one isn’t nice, it’s just that it’s barely big enough for two people. But that was the case for three out of the four vehicles he owns. The fourth being the off-limits Bronco.

I get out of the car, taking my coffee with me. Miles didn’t give any rules for driving the car, so I didn’t think anything of bringing my drink with me. But it’s probably for the best to throw it away before he sees. If he cares about his vehicles as much as his fridge and closet, I’d never hear the end of it.

The air is warm and scented with the brine of the sea as I walk toward the ornate club entrance. The entire building is white stucco, with black accents and black-and-white striped awnings over the doors. It gives the monstrous clubhouse a light and airy feel. The entire structure is beautiful even if it houses pretentious beliefs and judging eyes.

Once inside, I have to do my best not to stare at the large glittering chandelier in the lobby, or the elaborate floral arrangement decorating the table at the entrance. Even though I was here not long ago for my interview, it’s still overwhelming to see so much glamour up close. I walk to the welcome desk, watching as the receptionist’s eyes flick over me once, instantly dismissing me.

“Hello, could you point me in the direction of the driving range?” I ask as politely as I can manage when she’s looking at me like I’ve ruined her day with my existence.

“Do you have a membership?” Her tone implies that she believes I do not. If I had the capability, I’d buy a membership right now out of spite. But Naomi told me after her “background check” that just the initiation cost alone is rumored to be upwards of 100,000 dollars.

“I don’t.” Her eyes flick down to the magazine she’s reading. “But I’m Miles Day’s assistant. He said he’d leave word that I’d be stopping in.”

She raises a brow. “I’ll need your I.D. to confirm.”

I pull my driver’s license out of the belt bag slung over my chest and hand it to her. While I’m still not a fan of the athleisure aesthetic, I do think these bags are handy. I might have to add one into my normal wardrobe rotation. My uniform as of late is a polo shirt, tennis skirt, and chunky white sneakers, topped off with a belt bag and then my usual jewelry of braided hemp bracelets and starfish earrings. When I inquired over text about what I should wear to today’s meetings, Miles said my “usual”, but to bring something cocktail party appropriate for our dinner tonight. Do I know what that means? No. So hopefully the little black dress I stole from Naomi’s closet will do.

“Go out the double doors behind me and then turn right. You’ll be able to see the driving range from there.”

“Thank you,” I say as I take back my license. She returns to her magazine without so much as a have a good day.

I zip up my bag then walk out the doors and head to the right. In the distance I can see a row of people hitting golf balls toward…I’m not exactly sure. It seems as though they don’t have any goal but to hit a ball over and over. I really should do some research on basic golf terms. If only so I know what a driving range is supposed to look like.

My eyes travel over the various men and women swinging their clubs. It’s mildly impressive how far the balls seem to go. They go high enough that I lose sight of them in the bright morning sun. I spy Miles toward the end of the line, talking to who I assume is his caddy, Fitz. Miles wanted us to meet, which is why I had to leave the car and brave the grumpy receptionist.

“Hey,” I say, raising my voice over the sound of hitting. Miles is mid-swing and my greeting must throw him off, because the ball barely gets off the ground, merely rolling a few feet away.

“Perfect timing,” Fitz–I think–says with a laugh.

“Sorry, I’m not up to date on golf etiquette,” I say. Miles hands off his club and turns to face me.

“I have a feeling you would have done that even if you knew,” he says.

I shrug. “You’ll find out next time.”

He shakes his head at me, then gestures to the man with the shaggy brown hair and mischievous grin. “This is Fitz. Fitz, this is my new assistant Ellie.”

“Nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you.” Fitz holds out a hand. I give it a firm shake.

“I’m not sure I like the idea of Miles talking about me when I’m not around to defend myself,” I say, and Fitz laughs again. The deep crinkles around his eyes make him look like the kind of guy who laughs easily.

“All I told him was that you’re my assistant and you hate golf,” Miles says as he pulls a small towel out of his pocket and swipes the sweat off his brow. According to his schedule, he’s been here for close to three hours now. I’m not sure why he’d need to do this for three hours, but I can admire the dedication.

“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Fitz asks with a grin.

“I believe him. There’s no way he’d want to admit how many times I’ve wounded his ego.”

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