Page 4 of Lawson

“I see,” she says, lining up her shot and sinking it in again, completely avoiding all the decorative wooden pieces in her way.

Her triumphant smile does something to my insides, and I barely even remember to try to aim for the hole when I take my shot. I miss, but for some reason I don't give a shit.

“Does my damsel have a name?”

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, nodding. “I wouldn't normally appreciate being called adamsel, but I guess the shoe fits in this situation.” We move on to the next hole, and she takes her shot, finally missing one and proving she's human. “Blakely,” she says.

I take a step closer to her, looking down and resisting the urge to run my fingers through her long hair.

“Blakely,” I say, testing her name out on my tongue. There are quite a few other places on her I'd like to test out, but I'm not sure if this one would be a casual hookup. Everything about her screams elegance, adventure, and commitment. And if that lingering douchebag is any indication, then I'm sure they just got out of a very long relationship. That's usually a messy business, something I don't mind being a tool for—like a nice rebound or a distraction—but if it gets too serious... I'm out. And really, it's the only fair thing to do, since I have no time to properly give someone attention outside the ice.

“Are you from here?” I ask as we move on to the next shot.

“No,” she answers, finishing up another rare second shot for her as she sinks the ball into the hole. “I'm originally from Virginia, Norfolk area. But I just graduated college from the University of Maine.”

“So college is what brought you out here?”

Blakely gives a little shrug, and I can sense something like hesitation on the lines of her face before she smooths it away. “Not exactly. My father got a job out here a few years ago, and I was ready for a change. The University of Maine seemed like a good place to go.”

I nod, waiting the appropriate amount of time for her to ask me where I’m from. When she doesn’t, I tilt my head. “Don't you want to know where I'm from, damsel?”

She smiles, fiddling with the club in her hand. “Of course I do,” she says. “You can't give a girl ten seconds to form a question? Are you so used to having peopledyingto know all about you?”

My lips part, a thrill bolting through me. Hermouth. She definitely has me pegged, and I don't mind playing right into it. I give her a casual shrug, stepping up to take my shot. “Is it that easy to tell?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “If your rescuing antics weren't indication enough, the more than confident way you carry yourself tells me that you’re used to being the center of attention and you like it.”

“I love it. Is that such a bad thing? At least I'm honest about it.”

“Not a bad thing at all,” Blakely says. “It's refreshing. So many times, people like to put on a mask of what they think you want to see, or say the things you want to hear, without any trace of their real self in it.” Blakely glances around the bar, her eyes slightly wary as if she's looking for her ex.

Or who I assume is her ex.

“That sounds pretty specific,” I say as we finish the last hole and return our clubs and balls. We linger in a quieter corner near the putt-putt area. “Does it have to do with that guy I saved you from?”

Blakely smirks. “You're really playing up this hero angle, aren't you?”

“I'll play every angle I get if it keeps you smiling at me like that.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You really just said that, didn't you?”

“Pretty sure you heard me.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” she says. “But the way you're spinning it, it's like you saved me from a burning building.” She takes a casual lean against the wall, and I boldly take a step closer to her, leaning one arm on the other side of her head so I can look down at her.

“If it wasn't that big of a deal, then why are you here still talking with me, and not up there working things out with him?”

A wave of seriousness sweeps over her delicate features, washing away the fiery banter we've been playing with.

Regret twists my gut, but only for a moment.

“Fair point,” she admits, her eyes flickering up to the balcony above and behind me.

I spare a glance, following her line of sight, and shake my head when I see the douchebag is still there. I turn back around, silent and patient. If she wants to tell me her story, she will. I'm not going anywhere.

“He’s my ex,” she finally says. “Brian,” she heaves a heavy sigh as if just saying his name has a weight to it. “I thought things ended amicably. Apparently, I was wrong.”

“How long ago?”

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