Page 58 of The Perfect Putt

“So he keeps them in his life because he feels guilty?”

Fitz tilts his head back and forth. “Yes and no. I think it also has to do with hoping they’ll change. But Miles would never admit to that. He pretends to be a cynic when it comes to them, but I know deep down he hopes for something better.”

“Are they the reason he doesn’t want to get married?” I ask without thinking. That’s probably a question for Miles, or one to ponder by myself. But it’s too late now.

Fitz nods, his mouth set in a somber grimace. “I’ve spent most of our friendship trying to show him that there are good marriages out there. But it seems like every time I make any sort of progress, one of them shows up and wrecks everything.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. Panic blooms beneath the surface of my skin, barreling through my veins like a virus. I can feel the storm on the horizon getting closer. And I think all chances of it passing over us are gone.

Chapter twenty-eight

Miles Day

We’ve only just sat down at a table in the club’s restaurant and I’m already exhausted. My father spent the short drive to the course droning on about business. He’s a corporate lawyer and loves it more than anything else. More than me, more than my mom or any of his girlfriends he’s had over the years. He loves the high-rise in Cape Alamanda that he works at, his oversized desk with the perfect view of the water and a bar cart filled with the best whiskey and cigars.

Before my parents got divorced, I used to want what he had. I loved the idea of being just like my Dad. Now I’d rather go cage diving sans cage in shark infested waters. That might be a little dramatic, but his presence brings it out in me.

Our waiter is at our table before we can even glance at the menu. I’m sure he heard that Arthur Day was in the building and knew that if he took a little too long he’d be out of a job before his shift ended. My father is not known for patience. We place our orders, both of us having been here enough to know what we want without looking.

“So, what did you want to discuss?” I ask once we have our drinks.

“Jumping straight into things are we?”

I fan my hands out in front of me. “I assume you have a reason for wanting to have lunch.”

His expression darkens. “My reason is that I’m your father and I have a right to time with you.”

I clench my jaw. No one has a right to my time, it’s mine. But I need to play smart, choose my battles wisely. There’s no sense in working him up from the start.

“I’m sorry.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. “I just meant that this visit was sudden, so I wondered if a recent event brought it on.”

He shrugs nonchalantly and picks up his whiskey glass. Never mind that it’s barely noon, he’s never without it. If I were a corporation, I’d be worried about his alcohol consumption. But he’s never had any issues.

“I’m curious about your life is all, as is your mother.” His lip curls. He fails at hiding his disdain of her. He’s always failed in that area.

“Not much has changed since the last time we spoke. I’m busy preparing for a tournament.”

He smirks behind his glass. “And what about this new assistant of yours? The pretty little redhead?”

My blood runs cold at him bringing up Ellie. I work to maintain my composure. I can’t give him anything. He’ll report back to my mother and then this entire club and every gossip column there is will be talking about us. If we were together, I wouldn’t care. But we aren’t. I need to protect Ellie from that.

“What about her? She’s a good assistant.”

“Are you sleeping with her?”

I clench my teeth so hard they’re liable to crack. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a simple question. Are you sleeping with her? I wouldn’t blame you if you were. She’s–”

I cut him off. “Don’t finish that sentence.” My tone is hard.

He hums, the sound echoing off his glass as he drinks more. I can’t say this is the first time I’ve wanted to hit my father, but it’s one of the most intense times.

“And I’m not sleeping with her. She’s my assistant and friend, that’s all,” I add, hoping to end this conversation.

“A friend who wears your clothes? Who you call Red?” My jaw hurts from clenching it so hard. I hate her nickname coming out of his mouth. “And let’s not forget the countless calls your mother received about you two on the golf course together not long ago. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

“She’s just a friend,” I emphasize. “But even if she was more, it wouldn’t matter.”

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