Page 14 of Forever Wild

The next morning, I’m up bright and early, eager to hit the links with Jameson. Our exchange last night was fun and easy until the end. I’m not sure why an invitation to golf together made him shut down so quickly. It’s not like I asked him to have my babies. Or even out to dinner. But I heard him loud and clear: he’s not looking for anything romantic. Same, bud. Same.

I dig through my suitcase, wishing I would’ve brought a cuter bra than the thick-strapped sports bra I prefer to golf in, and then mentally chastising myself for the thought. It’s just golf. Neither of us is looking for anything close to a romantic relationship. We’re both focused on our careers. And, even if we were, I’m not the type of girl who needs to worry about her bra on the first date. Not that this is a date.

I shoot off a quick text to Izzy and Kelsey, letting them know I’ll meet them for brunch at 10:00 or a little after, and then head out.

When I get out to the clubhouse, Jameson is already there waiting for me. He looks even better in the morning light, a light blue polo and dark blue shorts making his green eyes fade toward blue. The whole ensemble reminds me of the edge of the ocean when the blues of the deep sea slowly shift into the teals and aquas of the coast.

“You sure you’re awake enough to golf?” Jameson asks, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You don’t look too well rested.”

“Wow,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes. “What did I do to deserve such a compliment this morning? I knew I was looking good, but nothing confirms it like someone telling you that you look tired,” I say sarcastically.

“Ah, yes. It’s almost as endearing as someone pointing out how shitty you’ve been at your job lately.”

I snort out a laugh, remembering my attempt to cover my awkward backtrack last night. “Feedback is a gift, Jameson, so, you’re welcome.”

We both pick up our bags from where the pro shop left them by the putting green and walk toward the first tee.

“So,” I ask, “I’m thinking we play a quarter a hole? But I get a stroke a hole, for the obvious reasons.”

“Oh really? You’ve been telling me since the minute I met you how terrible my game is, and you still think you need a stroke a hole to have a chance?”

“To be fair to me, I didn’t even know who you were when I first met you. And, while it pains me to admit this out loud”—I put my hand on my heart to show how sincere I am—“I do believe you may, possibly, be a better golfer than me.”

His shoulders shake as he laughs. “Fine, I’ll give you one stroke a hole. But I’m not playing for quarters.” He looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “What are you, eighty? Only old men play for quarters.”

I laugh because that is, without a doubt, correct. “I may not be an eighty-year-old man myself. Though, again, please feel free to stop complimenting my appearance at any time. I’m not sure my ego can handle all the praise. But I did grow up playing with my dad and grandpa and their friends, so I have a deep appreciation for the need to have a quarter bag with me any time I’m on a golf course.”

He laughs a deep rumble that sends shivers down my spine. “How about this, we’ll play for something else. How about a drink once we get back? Loser buys?”

I don’t typically start drinking before noon, but it feels safer than offering up something like a meal, which he may (again) misconstrue as me trying to ask him on a date.

“Deal.”

It’s clear that Jameson and I are both competitive when it comes to golf, but as the round goes on, it becomes obvious that Jameson is—and I recognize my own ridiculousness at this thought—very, very good. He’s clearly a professional who does this day in and day out. On every hole, he out-drives me by at least twenty yards, even though he’s playing from the tips and I’m playing from the women’s tees. He also makes putts that would make even the most experienced golfer jealous. It’s a huge turn-on. Apparently, I have some sort of putting kink I wasn’t aware of until now.

“Dang,” I say. “You read that green like a book.”

“Thank you,” he replies, taking the compliment smoothly. “It helps when I have such a talented player putting before me. It lets me get a good feel for what the green is doing.”

“Sheesh. You sure know how to make a girl blush. I bet you tell that to all the women you golf with.”

“You look good when you blush.”

If my cheeks weren’t on fire, they are now.

“And, no,” he continues like he wasn’t just blatantly flirting with me. I’d been suspicious before, but now I know he is. “My sister is the only woman I golf with, and I would never say something like that to her. If you think my ego is big, just wait until you meet my pint-sized sister who thinks she can take on the world.”

“It’s always the short ones you have to look out for,” I joke. “Unfortunately, I’m about to be in California working a lot with a couple other trips thrown in here and there, so I don’t know that I’ll get to meet her.” I stop short, realizing I likely read too much into his turn of phrase.

Silence hangs heavy between us until he coughs gently and says, “That’s too bad. She would really like you.”

He sets up for his next drive, and I quietly hang back by the walking path so I can watch his swing from the best vantage point. His shorts hug his ass as he moves, the power building in his body and flowing through to the ball as he swivels his hips and connects. Never in my life have I wished for a photographic memory more. Not only because it’s a lesson in technique, but because—damn. The man is a snapshot of power. His ball lands perfectly, smack-dab in the middle of the fairway. I catch the small smile that escapes from his lips before he catches himself and settles his features back into a look of professional disinterest. But that little glimpse into his happiness is infectious, and I can feel my spirit lifting with each shot he hits.

I’m surprised by how well he’s doing. I know he’s good. I know he’s a pro. But I wasn’t exaggerating when I said his game has been shit lately. I don’t watch golf religiously like my dad does, but I keep up with sports news enough to know that in Jameson’s last tournament, he got multiple triple bogeys. He played so bad, it made the news.

His time off and his new workout regimen have apparently paid off. He is hitting his drives solidly, his iron game is strong, and his putts have been on point. I’m honestly surprised I ran into him in the rough yesterday. He hasn’t missed the fairway all morning.

I’m also surprised by how much fun we’re having together. We’ve chatted throughout the round, the conversation flowing smoothly despite the regular quiet pauses necessitated by the game of golf.

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