Page 46 of The Perfect Putt

She blinks at me. “I don’t know what that means.”

I sigh and open my door. “You have a lot to learn.”

“How many majors are there?” she asks when I open her door to help her out. I’m pleasantly surprised that she waited for me. Maybe my words from earlier about accepting help got through to her.

“There are four every year. The Masters, the PGA Championship, the U.S. Open, and the British Open.”

She slides her legs toward me. I grab her waist and pick her up, then set her down gently beside the car. When I meet her eyes, she looks disoriented.

“You okay?”

She nods. “I’m fine.” Her voice is breathy and sends a tingle down my spine. I look down at her for a moment longer, enjoying the dazed look she’s wearing and the feel of her waist under my hands. Then I force myself to let her go to get her breakfast out of the backseat. After that, I get my golf bag out of the trunk and sling it over my shoulder.

“So your first year you won three,” she says as we slowly make our way to the front door.

I want to wrap my arm around her to help again, but I don’t know if she wants that or if it would be the best idea while we’re here. I know plenty of the members here wouldn’t hesitate to snap a photo and then suddenly there’s a fun TMZ headline for Brock to handle. I’m sure dating my assistant would make for a successful–albeit cliché–article.

“Yes,” I confirm.

“What about this year?”

I clench my jaw, thinking of my latest loss. “One so far. I came in second at the PGA Championship.”

“Second isn’t bad though,” she says as I open the door to the lobby.

“Second place is first place loser.”

She scrunches up her nose. “That’s a crummy way to look at it.”

“I don’t play for second, Red. I play to win.”

Our conversation pauses when we get to the reception desk. Sasha, the receptionist, smiles at me. “Miles, it’s good to see you today. You have a tee time for 7:42 right?”

I nod. “I do.”

“Okay, here’s the keys to your cart, it’s number 12.”

I nod and take them. I normally prefer to walk the course as practice for the tournament, but with Ellie here I make an exception.

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“Two bottles of water would be great, thanks, Sasha.”

She beams at me before grabbing two bottles from the fridge beside her desk. “No problem! Now, if you need anything else, you know there are plenty of beverage carts rolling around.”

I take the bottles from her and put them in the bag with Ellie’s breakfast. “Perfect, thanks again.”

“Have a great day!”

We get a few steps away from the desk before Ellie says anything.

“She’s much nicer to you than she is to me.”

“She was mean to you?” My brows furrow in confusion. “Sasha is the nicest receptionist here.”

“To you maybe, Mr. Rich Golfer Man.” I laugh at her bringing back her ‘insult’ from the other night. “But she looks at me like I’m gum on the bottom of her OnClouds.”

“Do you want me to say something?”

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