Page 15 of Forever Wild

Jameson has been fun, even a little flirty, which is a bit of a shock after yesterday.

By the time we reach our seventh hole, I’m feeling less confident that I can pull off a win despite the stroke a hole he’s giving me. He tees off and hits an impressive drive while I hit a much shorter one. I would love to say that his shirt hugging his biceps tightly or the lazy smiles he’s been sending my way are distracting me, but I’m having a very solid round. One of the best I’ve had in a while.

We continue to play, with him leading most of the time but me managing to stay respectably close. We reach the final hole with him narrowly ahead by a respectable three strokes. As someone who is undoubtedly a sore loser, I focus in, knowing I’m going to need to both play the best hole of my life and for Jameson to fall apart for me to have a chance.

As we step up to the tee box, Jameson turns to me with a sly grin on his face. “You know, I’m feeling generous today. How about we make this hole winner takes all?”

Do I want to win? Hell yes. Do I want to win because we changed the game in my favor at the last minute? Never.

“No way. I don’t need you to make this easier on me. We had a deal, and a stroke a hole was fair. I don’t want your charity.” I gesture to the men’s tee box. “I’ve seen you fall apart on eighteen before, I’ve still got a chance.”

He shrugs. “Okay, but don’t come crying to me when you’re the one buying our drinks.”

Damn it. Now I have to double down on this. “Tell you what, Jameson, how about this—we’ll make a side bet. Loser of this hole has to do whatever the winner wants.”

Jameson raises an eyebrow. “Anything? You know I’m a man in my midthirties, right? I’ve already thought of ten things I could ask of you that would make every girl at your sister’s birthday party blush. Even the streakers.”

My body lights up at the thought, but I nod anyway. “Anything. Plus, who’s to say I haven’t thought of eleven things to ask of you?” I most certainly have not, but he doesn’t need to know that.

His grin turns devilish. “You’re on.”

We both tee off, and I manage to hit a decent drive, but Jameson hits one of his best all day. We both make it to the green in regulation, but I’m on the fringe while he has a short putt. My heart is pounding as I line up my shot. Taking a deep breath, I tap the ball, playing the downhill.

My line is good, and as the ball slowly trickles toward the cup, it looks like I might actually win the hole. We stand there watching as the ball slows before the cup, before finally stopping just short of the hole.

“No!” I yell, completely disregarding any course noise regulations. There is a reason I like playing in the middle of nowhere. “Ugh. I can’t believe I nancied it.”

“That’s tough,” Jameson says, casually leaning on his putter. “Too bad you didn’t put a little more oomph behind that one. You had the line. Now watch and learn how you make a putt.”

With that, he taps his ball forward, easily sinking it in the hole. Then he turns to me, grinning wickedly. “Looks like you owe me a drink and some sort of favor.”

I’m suddenly incredibly nervous. What have I gotten myself into? But I never renege on a bet. When I was eight and my dad bet me he could catch more fish than me, and I lost, I didn’t run and hide—I ate the whole freshwater mussel, even if it took me way more tries than anyone wanted to witness.

“I guess I do. Just let me know when you want me to come back out and give you some golf lessons,” I say, trying to sound confident.

“Oh, really?” He smirks. “You think you’ve got something you can teach me about golf?”

How had I not noticed his lips before? They are just on the masculine side of plump, his bottom one a pillow I could easily sink into. Forcefully dragging my eyes away from his full mouth, I pause for a second, trying to remember what we were talking about before I was distracted by his stupid, handsome face.

“Umm…” What were we talking about? Oh! Right. Bantering. It’s always banter. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I know I’ve got something to teach you about golf. For my remedial course, I always start with a lesson I feel would be particularly useful to you: how to avoid snowmen on a scorecard.”

I shoot him a playful wink, letting him know I’m joking about his recent triple bogies, which are typically eights on the score card, rather than trying to rub it in his face.

He chuckles a deep, short-lived rumble as we reach our golf bags. “Damn, Bryn, you really know how to kick a guy when he’s down.”

“Thank you. It’s a skill of mine,” I reply as we both pick up our bags and head toward the clubhouse.

“You know,” he continues, “that’s a lot of shade coming from someone who just lost.”

“It may not have been my best showing.”

“So you’re saying you’ll do better next time?”

“Oh, I have no doubt I’ll come out with the W for sure.”

“Very confident, considering our respective professions. No matter what the last year may suggest, I am a professional golfer.”

“You are?!” I let out a mock gasp. “Someone should tell that to your game.”

---