Page 51 of The Perfect Putt

Because of this, we’ve barely spent any time together as friends. Every second we’ve been together has been under the pretense of work. He’s had short breaks when I’m around, but he always looks so tired or tense that it doesn’t feel right to try and talk to him.

Our circumstances haven’t lessened my feelings though. In fact, they’ve only increased them. Yesterday he placed his hand on my lower back when he was passing me in the kitchen and it sent tingles through my whole body. It probably meant nothing to him, but it was fodder for my daydreams the rest of the afternoon. My mind conjured up a butterfly-inducing scene where instead of just brushing past me, he stopped behind me and bent down to kiss the space where my shoulder meets my neck. The next time Miles asked me for something I stumbled over my words, red-faced and wondering if he could see what I was thinking about. If he could, he didn’t make it known.

I sigh as I look back at the emails I’m supposed to be responding to. It’s hard to focus when I know that right down the hall, Miles is in his gym, training with Gideon. The image of him shirtless while lifting those weights is forever burned into my memory. I’m tempted to make up a reason to interrupt them, just for a chance to see him. But I know he needs to focus even more than I do.

The sound of the sliding glass door opening draws my attention away from my laptop. Fitz walks out onto the balcony where I’ve been working. It makes these long days better if I can feel the sun on my skin and taste the salt in the air. I might end up with a sunburn soon, but it’s worth it. Fitz gives me a friendly smile as I set my laptop aside.

“I didn’t know you were coming by today. Miles has training, but he should have a break after that before his physical therapy appointment if you need to talk.”

He sits down on one of the patio chairs. “I actually came by to talk to you.”

My eyebrows spring up. “Me? Is something wrong?”

“Miles is running himself ragged,” he answers.

“He said it’s normal to be this busy before a major. I don’t think he’d put more on his plate than he can handle.” As soon as I say the words though, I’m brought back once more to that time I walked in on his training session. Gideon was scolding him for pushing himself too hard. If that was a normal day, there’s no telling what he’s doing this close to a tournament.

“Miles cares about winning more than anything,” Fitz explains. I can’t help but wonder if anything includes his friends. Includes me. “That drive is what makes him great, but it also can be detrimental. He needs time in his schedule for rest.”

“He has breaks throughout the day,” I say, trying not to sound too defensive. “Why are you talking to me about this? Talk to him. As his assistant, I make the schedule that Miles wants.”

“And that schedule is going to have him so worn out at the Open that he’ll tank. What do you think he’ll do if he doesn’t win this time?”

Push even harder. I saw it on the course last week, and in everything he does. He’ll push until he has nothing left.

“If you’re so worried, why not talk to Miles?”

Fitz sighs, raking a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “I tried. He won’t listen.”

“And you think he’ll listen to me? You’re his best friend and caddy.”

“I do think he’ll listen to you, but if you don’t believe me, I have an alternate plan.”

“Which is?” I look back to my laptop. There’s plenty I should be doing right now.

“You put something on his schedule and instead of doing that thing, you take him to the beach. He usually goes every day, but he hasn’t been further than his balcony all week. It would do him good to go.”

I toy with the braided bracelets on my wrist, rolling the little shell woven into one in between my fingers. “I don’t know, Fitz. I don’t want to make him angry.”

“You won’t make him angry. He might put up a fight, but he’ll give in. A few hours at the beach will lower his stress and make his game even better.”

I consider his words. Fitz wouldn’t try to hurt Miles’ chances at winning. I learned after hearing him joke about it a few times the past few weeks that Fitz’s paycheck is a portion of Miles’ winnings. So it stands to reason that he’d want him to do the best possible. And beyond that, they’re best friends. He knows him better than I do.

“All right, I’ll do it. But if he fires me, I’m taking you down with me.”

Fitz grins. “Noted.”

Anxiety gnaws at my stomach as I slide into the driver’s seat of the Bronco. After my chat with Fitz, I called and pushed Miles’ appointment with his physical therapist back. Then I told him that instead of coming here to do his therapy, that we’d be going to their office because they have a therapy pool there. I made up some spiel about how they said water therapy would help his muscles recover faster. I’m not sure how I spun together a successful lie in such little time. But I’ve managed to get Miles in a car with his swim trunks on and not raise any suspicion.

My bathing suit starts to itch on my neck. It’s hot with my hair down, especially after rushing to get everything we’d need before Miles got done with training, but if I lift my hair he’ll see the tie of my swimsuit top. There’s no way that I’m revealing the truth until I’ve parked at the public beach entrance. I went to too much effort to sneak out to change, load down a cooler with lunch and snacks, and hatch a plan to get Miles here.

It’s ridiculous that I’m driving across town to go to the beach when the very same beach is Miles’ backyard, but I guess this is what happens when you care for a stubborn man. You make up stories to get him to take care of his mental health.

Miles doesn’t look up from his phone the entire drive, which further aids my cause. I do my best to look casual as I turn onto Wave Way, then down the side road that leads to the public beach access point. He’s so distracted that he gets out of the car before noticing anything.

“Where are we?” he asks when I get out too.

“The beach.”

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