Page 4 of The Perfect Putt

Fitz’s wife Jada is an artist. She makes pieces inspired by Coastal Cove’s scenery. I own quite a few acrylic paintings by her. I don’t pretend to know anything about art, but I know she’s good. The fact that her gallery sells out every time she has a showing proves it too.

“Okay, I might drop by later,” I say and he pats me on the back.

“She’d like that.” He pulls out his phone; it’s lit up and buzzing in his hand. A photo of him and Jada kissing is on the screen. I barely resist rolling my eyes at how cheesy they are.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says upon answering. “We were just talking about you. Miles is going to try to drop by your gallery showing.” I watch his smile grow as he listens to whatever she’s saying. “You’re amazing. I knew you’d find someone. I’ll let him know. Love you too.”

He hangs up and I raise my brows. “Well, what was that about?”

“Jada said she found you a new assistant. Her name’s Ellie Hart. She graduated a little over two years ago with a degree in business administration and a perfect GPA. Plus, she’s got experience as an assistant.”

“That sounds promising,” I say. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give her an interview. If Jada approves, she has to be decent.”

“I’ll send you her contact information once Jada gives it to me.” He takes a step back. “I’m going to head out though. See you tonight?”

“Sounds good.”

He walks back toward the lobby and I head into the locker room to get my duffel bag. A hesitant smile stretches my lips. Maybe I’ll find someone good after all this time. Someone who will simply come in and do her job so that I can focus on mine. Then I’ll win the Masters, and steal back the number one spot from Zane, making everything right in the world once more.

Chapter three

Ellie Hart

“This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say as I hold up a lime green pantsuit.

“It was sage green on the website,” my sister Naomi says from where she’s folding clothes on her bed.

“It has shoulder pads.” I scrunch my nose up.

“It’s vintage.”

“It’s going in the trash.” I toss it on the floor. She frowns, but doesn’t object. Naomi has a tendency to buy the most outrageous items from online vintage shops, only to never wear them. She mostly wears leggings and t-shirts that she doesn’t mind her eighteen-month-old son Archie rubbing his nose on.

“I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to let you raid my closet,” she says as she folds a pair of Archie’s Paw Patrol pajamas.

“You’re my sister, you don’t really have a choice.” I slide another hanger to the side, revealing a navy dress that isn’t entirely atrocious.

“I’m going to stop inviting you over.”

“Like that would stop me.”

Ever since I got my own home, I’ve been coming to Naomi’s house for dinner at least once a week. I moved to Coastal Cove to be close to her after her husband, Owen, died in a car accident two years ago. I lived with her for a few months, but she refused to let me stay any longer than I needed to in order to get my own place. Not because she didn’t want me here, but because she hated the thought of my life centering around her and Archie. I can’t even deny that it would have.

I spent those months here helping in every way that Naomi would let me. I still try to help where I can. I buy clothes for Archie, never let her pay for a drink at Coastal Coffee, and force her to let me do dishes on the nights she cooks. It never feels like enough, but it’s all she’ll allow. We Hart women are too independent for our own good. At least that’s what my dad says every time my mom hurts her back rearranging furniture instead of asking him for help.

“None of these seem like the right thing to wear,” I say with a sigh. When I’m working at Coastal Coffee, I wear jeans and one of the t-shirts with the shop’s name on it. Outside of work, I’m usually in shorts, a bathing suit, and an oversized button down shirt. Most of my wardrobe consists of swimsuits. I have no idea what to wear to an interview with a professional golfer.

“Try my drawers, I might have a tennis skirt or something in there.”

“Why would I wear a tennis skirt to an interview?” I ask her as I rip down a t-shirt that says I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom, and throw it into the pile with the neon suit.

“Hey, I like that shirt!” Naomi protests.

“I’m saving Archie from embarrassment. Cool moms do not wear shirts that say they’re cool.”

“It’s a Mean Girls quote.”

“All the more reason to throw it away. That movie came out two decades ago.”

---