Chapter Eight
GARRETT
Greg Hanstrom steps away from the green as the crowd rustles with contained excitement. Tipping the brim of his cap, he smirks at me before clapping his caddy on the back. We’ve always had a healthy amount of rivalry between us, so I’m not surprised that he’s gloating right now. I probably would too if I were about to see my biggest rival cut from the tournament.
That’s not what’s happening though. I’m not about to lose my position as the top golfer in the world because I can’t keep my thoughts on track and off the damn nanny. I step up and push my tee into the ground.
“Didn’t we only just decide we should be friends?” Erin says, and it’s that pouty mock seriousness where I know she really wants to laugh at me. We’ve spent enough time on the phone now that I can read her voice most of the time.
“I only asked if you were thinking of me. Friends can do that, can’t they?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never had a friend before.” Now I know she’s teasing me.
“Not one that’s a girl so much.”
“Oh, of course. It must be so hard to make friends when you’d rather make notches in your belt.”
“I’m not trying to make you another notch, am I? So why don’t you tell me, friend, if you think of me.” Because I sure as hell think about her.
“Perhaps a smidge.” Her laugh is breathy, and it’s impossible to tell if she means it or she wants me to believe it. And then she turns serious. “Abby misses you. I miss you. Of course, we do.”
“Frost, your grandmother knows how to handle balls better than you do,” someone behind me comments.
I take a moment to scratch the side of my nose with my middle finger while glowering in the direction of my heckler. That’s all the time I can afford to dedicate to the crowd before I concentrate on the game. I’m this close to missing the cut. If I screw up this shot, if my score isn’t good enough today, I’ll hang up my golf bag early this tournament.
I haven’t missed the cut since my first year playing pro. Even when my world blew wide open six months ago with Abby’s sudden appearance in my life I didn’t tank like this. Placing the ball on the tee, I line up my shot. I take my time, make sure everything’s perfect.
I can’t believe it’s come to this.
I’m all for being friends with the opposite sex. For instance, I’d be perfectly content with Erin and her boyfriend being just friends. But that doesn’t help me work out where to put my hands when Erin and I are spread out on the sofa talking about Abby’s day. Or keep my dick from reacting when we share space. Any space, anytime, anywhere. I’ve had to buy new pants before someone notices how stretched out the others have gotten after she moved under my roof. Even our platonic phone calls leave me hard and aching.
“Oh, before I forget, Abby wants to know what outfit you settled on for tomorrow. She wants to be able to point you out herself.”
“Probably the yellow argyle.” I collapse on the bed and tuck one hand under my head. “The louder the better. I need to distract Hanstrom and give myself an edge over the field.”
“It will definitely do that. Sometimes, I wonder how someone who dresses like you do could have the reputation you have.”
“Is that so?” I wiggle my eyebrows even though she can’t see me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to change my mind about being friends? Then I could show you exactly how my charm works.”
“Keep your charm and your bright outfits on the golf course. You need to play well, don’t you?”
“I always do.” Boy, do I want to play with her. Or I would if she didn’t have a boyfriend and I didn’t need a nanny.
“Garrett?” she asks.
“Yeah?”
“Good luck tomorrow. We know you’ll make the cut.”
“Do you think he plans on swinging that club any time soon?” Greg is goading me, trying to push me out of the tournament since it’s the only way he’ll beat me.
It’s got to stop. I’m thinking about a redhead and why being friends sucks ass instead of giving Greg a run for his money.
Rolling out my shoulders, I send the ball across the green. It rattles over the ground and pops into the hole. Thank God.
I’m not out of the tournament yet.
***