Page 33 of The Guy Who Became My Grumpy Boss

“You start over there, atThe Planet of the Apes.” The girl pointed. “There’s a snack bar halfway through, in case you get hungry.” She smiled. “Have fun.”

Jessica grabbed the shorter club and walked in the directionindicated.

I shouldn’t have been so engrossed by the way she looked in jeans, but I was, and it took one of the girls giggling behind me to provoke me into raising my eyes and following Jessica. Had I really once told Marissa that I didn’t like curvy girls? That was entirely untrue. Jessica’s curves were as distracting as her smirk, her smile, and the look of triumph she got on her face when she finished a particularly difficult assignment.

Miniature remnants of technology lay discarded beside the path we were on, and foreboding music I didn’t recognize played from unseen speakers.

My aunt had taught me that most people liked to talk. Silence was rarely appreciated, so I started with the first question I’d derived. “Have you ever seen this film?”

“Nope.” Jessica moved to a red rectangular mat on the ground that had three indents in a line. “I’m first,” she declared.

I didn’t argue and watched as she put her ball into the biggest indent, then stepped up beside it and studied what lay before her.

A curved path of green carpet, edged with corrugated metal, spanned twelve feet until it opened up into a round area where the top half of a decaying Statue of Liberty stood. A model of a rusted-out cargo ship lay in the middle of the ramp, and there was a slow rise for the first two-thirds, then a steep incline to the end.

By the time I returned my attention to Jessica, she had her back to me and was lining up for her shot.

If I’d thought the jeans were nice before that, the view I had at present was nothing short of enthralling.

Did everyone wiggle their back sides like that when they played mini golf?

Jessica suddenly became still, then she pulled the club back and hit the ball.

Not too hard, I noticed, but hard enough to get it up the hill and past the ship.

“Come on,” Jessica muttered as she clenched her fist. “Go over.”

Her ball slowed and almost stopped at the crest of the hill. I noticed that if it did so, it would roll all the way back to her.

Jessica leaned toward her ball, as if she could add momentum to it, then pumped her arm when it tottered at the top and went over to the other side. “Yes!” She turned to me, a look of triumph on her face that held even more joy than when she finished a project. She opened her mouth to speak, but when she saw me, she clicked her teeth together.

What had she been about to say? And why had she stopped?

“Your turn.” Jessica pointed at the red mat and moved out of the way.

Considering I had two YouTube videos and Jessica’s shot as reference, I decided to follow her example. I put my ball where she had and stepped up beside it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I glanced up at her. “Hitting the ball?”

“Aren’t you left-handed?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Stand on this side.” Jessica shook her head. “And don’t hold a putter like a tennis racket.”

An all too familiar twist ratcheted in my gut, and I felt the shame of being unprepared begin to engulf me. I hated not knowing what to do or what to say. Also, I knew how to putt. Or had. For some reason, my mind was drawing a blank on the process.

“You’ve really never played mini golf before?” Jessica asked.

“No,” I said in a tight voice.

“Oh.” She frowned, and her eyebrows knit together. “Why didn’t you say so?” Before I was forced to answer, she moved tomy side. So close that our hips almost touched. Jessica didn’t seem to notice. “Hold the putter like this. Top hand here.”

Her proximity, not to mention her perfume, slowed my meltdown. She waited for me to copy her, and as I did, I willed more of my anger away.

“Good, bottom hand here.”

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