Page 11 of The Perfect Putt

She gives me a look. “It was a lucky guess. Do you actually have ten bedrooms? That’s obnoxious.”

I snort. “You don’t hold back do you? I feel like I should be offended since I’m your boss.”

“If you were going to fire me, you would have already.”

“Fair enough. Well, how about a tour of my obnoxious house to start? You’ll need to know where a few things are.”

Her lip twitches, but she doesn’t smile. “Lead the way.”

“Just so you know, I do have cameras around the property. In case you really are a stalker.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Now I’m worried about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. They’re all outside.” She gives me a look that says my words aren’t helping. I laugh at her expression. “Come on, let me show you around before I have to meet with my trainer.”

“Okay, but if I see a camera somewhere, I can’t be liable for property damage.”

I bite back another laugh. “Why do I get the feeling that having you around is going to make things a lot more interesting?”

“Because you’re not as dumb as your chosen career suggests?” she quips as we start down the hall.

I shake my head in disbelief. “You really hate golf.”

“I don’t hate it, I just think it’s pointless.”

“I think you hate it, but I’m going to change your mind,” I reiterate what I said at the diner.

“You can try, but you shouldn't hold your breath.”

“What if I said it was a job requirement?” I challenge her.

She shoots me a wry look. “I guess I’ll have to take an acting class in my spare time.”

“Something tells me you don’t need a class at all,” I say without thinking. That might cut a little too deep. But as if proving my point, her expression doesn’t reveal anything about how my words might have affected her. She simply hums in response. For all I know, she’s as unbothered as she appears. But I don’t think so. I think Ellie Hart is a lot more than she pretends to be, and for some inexplicable reason, I want to figure her out.

Chapter seven

Ellie Hart

1,267—Miles has 1,267 unread emails in his inbox. The man organizes his closet by season as well as color, but doesn’t have a clue what’s waiting for him in this inbox. Apparently his agent Brock takes care of communication with his major sponsors, but everything else goes to his email account. The one that I am now in charge of.

While today hasn’t been bad, I can say with certainty that I do not want to be a personal assistant for the rest of my life. After our tour this morning, I set up my work phone, filled out all the tax information and paperwork for my position, and then went through all of these emails one by one. It’s been tedious to say the least. But at least Miles isn’t around to get under my skin. He said he was going out, but that he’d be back later in his home gym to work with his personal trainer if I needed him.

Something tells me you don’t need a class at all. What gave him the right to say something like that? We were having fun sparring, or at least I was. Suddenly our swords went from wood to metal. My composure held, but just barely.

I take a deep breath of salty air, grateful that I chose to work out here on the deck. One thing Miles has going for him is this view. It makes sense that he bought the house for it. If I had the money, I would have too. The waves crash in the distance, and each time they draw back from the shore I imagine them carrying my problems away. Unfortunately, just like those problems, the waves always come back.

My fingertips find their way to my right earring to twist it. Focus, Ellie. I draw my attention back to my laptop screen with a sigh. I worked through lunch, mostly because I’m used to it, but also because I forgot to ask Miles’ policy about breaks. A protein bar from my bag held me over, but I’m looking forward to the giant burger I’ll be picking up from Sand Dollar Diner on the way home.

After all my work, I’ve got the emails organized into various categories. Since I don’t know how Miles wants me to respond, I’ll have to seek him out and see if he has time to look over them.

Reluctantly, I push out of the cushioned rattan deck chair and step inside. The air in here feels frigid in comparison to the balmy warmth outside. I walk down the hall to the gym door he showed me earlier. My hand hovers over the knob. Something tells me you don’t need a class at all. Why did he have to go and say something like that? The rest of the tour was stilted and awkward enough, but now I have to keep working for him. The words shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but they’re sticking to my brain like a stubborn price tag sticker. I keep trying to scrape them off, but it’s just not working.

I shake my head, take a deep breath, then open the door. What I see makes me freeze. Miles. A sweaty, shirtless Miles. He’s leaned back on a bench, pushing two large dumbbells up in a chest press while his trainer counts his repetitions. His mouth is set in a hard line and the look in his eyes sends tingles all the way to my toes. I can feel his dedication and passion from across the room.

“Two more,” his trainer says. Neither of them have noticed me yet. I can’t bring myself to move or make so much as a sound.

Miles pushes the weights up with a low growl that has me feeling much too warm.

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