Page 36 of The Perfect Putt

“It’s a minor sprain. She just needs the classic RICE method,” Sutton explains and Miles nods like he knows what that means.

He places two king-sized pillows behind me, then hands me a dark green sweatshirt that says Masters Tournament in white script. I put it on even though I’m not that cold. He doesn’t need to know I was shivering because of his touch and not the cold.

Everything smells like him. When I lean back onto the pillows I feel like I’m laying on a Miles-scented cloud. The fresh out of the shower scent is going to haunt me for days.

“RICE?” I question, my eyes following Miles as he heads to the kitchen.

“Rest, ice, compression, elevation. I’m sure Miles has some medical wrap. I can wrap it for you so you have the compression after the ice numbs you and your medicine has a chance to kick in.”

“Okay, thank you,” I say, feeling slightly overwhelmed from all of the care I’m receiving. It’s not like I’ve been neglected by my friends and family, but I’ve been taking care of myself since I left for college. I’m not used to this extra attention.

“You’re welcome.”

She looks up and I follow her line of sight. Miles has his medicine cabinet open, grabbing medical tape from a box. Even from here I can tell how meticulously organized it is.

“He cares about you,” she says in a quiet voice and my eyes widen. I’m not ready for wherever this conversation is headed.

“You know, it’s your last night here, you should go back down to everyone at the beach. I’m fine,” I tell her.

She gives me a knowing smile. “All right, I’ll go let everyone know you’re okay. You’re in good hands here.”

I let out a sigh of relief once she’s out the door. But my relaxation doesn’t last, because Miles is by my side again right after. He hands me two Tylenol and a bottle of strawberry lemonade.

“I didn’t know you liked this,” I say, lifting the bottle so he knows what I’m referencing.

His concerned look melts into a sheepish one. “I don’t, but I know you do.” He grabs the washcloth off the table, fiddling with it. “You asked for it at the restaurant in Alamanda, and seemed disappointed when they didn’t have any.”

My chest warms. “You didn’t need to do that.” I pop the pills into my mouth, then take a sip of the sweet lemonade. Miles takes the bottle back from me and sets it on the coffee table.

“You’re here all the time, you should have things you like too.” He gestures to my legs with the cloth. “Is it okay if I brush the sand off for you? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. It won’t be perfect, but it might help.” The sand is already starting to itch, so as much as it makes my heart pound to think of him touching me more, I nod.

He kneels beside me, and gently brushes the wet cloth over my legs. I close my eyes because watching him is too much. My face is on fire, and I have goosebumps everywhere else. There’s something so intimate about it. I shouldn’t let him do this, but…it feels good. And if he wants to, why not let him? Maybe nothing will come of it, but at least I have this moment.

His fingertips slide under my leg, making me gasp. My eyes fly open and meet his. Their green depths carry a magnitude of emotion that I can’t place.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, his voice low and raspy.

I swallow. “No, just surprised me,” I reply.

Ever so softly, he lifts my leg then runs the cloth under it. His touch on the back of my thigh is too much.

“I-I think I can do the rest myself,” I stutter out.

He hands me the cloth without a word, but I can see in his expression that he’s not immune to this either. There’s something here between us. Something stretched taut, ready to snap. All it would take is one step over the line we’ve been toeing. The line I need to stay firmly on the other side of until I know this can be serious.

I make quick work of brushing the sand away. Miles sets the ice pack on my ankle once I’m done, then lays a blanket over my legs. He takes the spot Sutton was in at the end of the couch.

“Thank you,” I whisper to break the silence.

“You’re welcome.” He rests a hand on my left foot over the blanket. “How are you feeling?”

“It’s still hurting some,” I say, trying to focus on my words while he’s touching me. “But the ice is helping.”

“Good. That’s good.” He leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. I watch as he visibly relaxes next to me. Was he really that worried about me?

“Don’t worry, I won’t sue you for hurting my ankle on your property,” I joke to lighten the mood.

He smirks, his eyes still closed. “I have good lawyers, I wasn’t worried.”

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