Page 69 of The Perfect Putt

I hold my breath as he putts, waiting for the only moment he shifts his focus. He makes it, placing him at three under. I clap along with everyone else. He hands Fitz his putter, then lifts his gaze and finds me in an instant. He hasn’t had to look for me even once. It’s like there’s some part of him always aware of where I am, no matter what’s happening around us. He smiles at me. I mouth I love you, and then he’s off again. There’s no time for more than that.

I worried coming into this that I’d feel bored or slighted by not being able to talk to him. But it hasn’t felt that way at all. Instead, I’ve thrown myself into the game too. I’ve kept track of his score and looked forward to that little moment after the final putt at each hole. Because even though I might be in the crowd with everyone else today, I’m the only one that Miles looks at. The only one he smiles at. And tonight, I’ll be the one celebrating this amazing day in his arms.

Day two of the U.S. Open

Yesterday was perfect. Miles ended the day in the number one spot with four under. Zane was right behind him with three below par, but Miles was winning. We celebrated over dinner at a gorgeous restaurant and then got some rest for the next day.

This morning we got an early breakfast before Miles headed to warm up. He was in high spirits, everyone was. We should have had our guards up. Not seeing Miles’ parents at all yesterday made us think they were bluffing. But it turns out they weren’t.

We’re on the sixth hole when everything starts to go downhill. As he walked up to the tee box, Miles’ steps faltered. I looked in the distance and spotted a familiar figure. His father. And when I got closer, I noticed his mother was there too. They stood near enough to speak to each other, but not so near that they would chance touching the other.

Miles hits a hook shot, his ball sailing to the left toward the trees. Fitz looks over, shooting me a worried expression before they start walking. I twist my bracelets and match their pace.

“It’s nice to see you again, Ellie,” a voice I wish I’d never have to hear again says from behind me.

“Mr. Day,” I greet him in a cool tone as he steps up to my right.

Talking is fine in between shots, but I’d rather Miles not have to listen to his father. I consider dropping back, but I’m not sure if that would just cause Miles to be concerned.

“You can call me Arthur.”

“I’d rather not,” I say and he chuckles. The sound grates on my eardrums.

Miles looks back at us. It’s just a split second, but he hasn’t looked back once the entire tournament. This isn’t good.

“I see my son has poisoned you against me.”

“He didn’t have to. Just meeting you was enough for me to know I don’t want any sort of familiarity between us.”

I don’t have to look at him to know how angry my response has made him. I can feel his hatred rolling off him in waves. Miles looks back again. I quickly force a smile. He shouldn’t worry about me right now.

“You don’t want to make an enemy of me, Ms. Hart,” he says as we come up on where Miles’ ball landed. “I can promise you, you’ll regret it.”

My stomach knots. I don’t say a word, since it’s time for Miles to hit. Thankfully he chips it up onto the green. I breathe a sigh of relief. When we start walking again, I expect him to say something else, but he doesn’t. I’m not sure whether I should be grateful though because he continues to stand beside me.

Miles misses his putt. Twice. He bogeys for the first time today. When he finally makes it, his eyes meet mine, then flick to my right where his father stands. I want to reassure him, but I can’t say anything, and he doesn’t look at me again.

The next two holes go the same way. Arthur standing too close for comfort. Miles putting for bogey. Then looking at me, glaring at his father.

This can’t continue. I purposefully fall back on the way to hole nine and assimilate into the crowd. Hopefully Arthur will follow me and Miles can focus. Arthur doesn’t follow, though, and I worry that I’ve played right into his hand. When Miles’ mother falls into step beside me, I know I’ve made a mistake.

“Do you think you’re special?” she asks. No introductions or greetings. She’s straight to the point. I like this better than Arthur’s sleazy faux manners, but not by much.

I don’t give her a response. She decides to fill the silence all on her own.

“Because you’re not. You may be warming his bed right now, but he’ll tire of you eventually. He has his father’s blood in him after all.”

I whip my head toward her. The expression she wears is infuriatingly serene. She must speak like this often.

“Miles is nothing like his father.” I keep my voice low, not just so Miles doesn’t hear me, but any press around. The fact that she’s having this conversation surrounded by people makes my blood boil.

“So you aren’t his assistant?”

“What does that matter?”

“I don’t know if Miles told you, but Arthur is quite fond of his secretaries. And I believe it wasn’t long ago that I caught Miles’ last female assistant in his bed with lingerie on.”

She pauses her verbal flogging when we stop. I hear Miles hit the ball, but all I can see is his green Nike cap. I hate not being close to him. Does he know I’m missing? Is he playing better or worse?

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