Page 18 of Wildly Inappropriate

“I…I don’t know how to respond to that. Though there is a not-small subset of the romance community who would agree with you. They hate blonde main characters for unknown reasons,” I say.

Breaking apart one of the scones from the bakery, I continue my tale, purposely downplaying the horrible party where everything went wrong when I was 18, and focusing on the enemies-to-elevator-kissing-to-banging-in-Vegas story.

“And we went back to fighting about everything. I think it was our most insufferable Thanksgiving yet,” I conclude with a sigh.

“Bryn may have mentioned something about that,” Izzy says, and I’m not sure if she’s joking or not.

“It wasn’t my best moment.” I wave my hand as if my intentional goading of JT to fight with me about our hookup could be dismissed as nothing. Maybe it was nothing. He definitely never took the bait.

“And then we were at that bar together in Phoenix. And, well, you were there, Iz. We all had a few beers waiting, and I had had a few before that, and we just happened to pass each other in that little hallway back by the bathrooms. And I swear, our shoulders bumped, and it was like a switch inside me was flipped. All of a sudden he was pulling me into the dark back corner, or shit, maybe I was pulling him, but either way, we were making out with some serious hand action. And then one of the bartenders pushed into the back door and…we weren’t anymore.”

“And then?” Becca asks.

At that moment, Kelsey walks through the door, carrying her laptop and the world’s smallest cup of coffee.

“And then nothing,” I say. “The next time we talked was last night when he showed up unannounced and declared we’re going to be roommates for the next six weeks.”

But maybe, just maybe, I have a plan for how to get rid of him sooner.

Chapter nine

JT

“Hey, Dad,” I answermy phone on speaker before setting it on the grass next to my ball so I can continue to line up my putt. To be clear, I would never answer my phone—let alone put it on speakerphone—at a normal golf course. I’m a strict rule follower and always leave my cell phone in the locker room. But unsurprisingly, Wild Bluffs Country Club doesn’t have the same rules as most courses. While I’m guessing it technically has a no-phones policy, no one abides by it. However, I admit my knowledge is limited because you rarely ever see another human while playing out here—unless you both happen to be a long way into the rough, that is. So it doesn’t really matter either way.

“JT, your mother informs me you are sitting the next few tournaments out due to an injury. Are you sure that’s the right move for your career?”

It’s a classic question from my dad, so I should’ve been expecting it. Calling him “involved” in my career is like calling the universe “big.” It’s technically true, but at the same time, it doesn’t come close to encapsulating the magnitude. He gave up his lifelong dream of playing professional golf himself when I was seven, choosing to coach me instead. Since then, he has dedicated every minute of his life to making sure I’m the best golfer I can be, even though he hasn’t been my coach since I left for college ten years ago.

“I talked with all my people, Dad. We all agree this is best.” I pause, considering if I should tell him the truth, but I decide against it, so I add, “Based on my injury.” Do I wish I had the type of relationship with my dad where I could admit that my “injury” is ten percent a physical ache in my lower back and ninety percent the mental clusterfuck that my mind is? Sure. But I don’t. My dad, like the media, tends to handle physical ailments much better than mental ones.

“And are you sure your team has your best interest in mind? I cannot imagine how taking a month off from tournaments can be beneficial. Plus, as your financial advisor, I feel the need to remind you that it’s important to keep bringing in additional earnings. A few of those investments you suggested have been underperforming.”

“I’ll still be out on the course, Dad. It’s not like I’m going to be sipping margaritas on the beach for a month. I’m—”

“I’ve got to go, JT. Some of us still have work to do.” He chuckles at his joke before continuing, “But I told your mother I would call and make sure you were able to make contact with one of the Ferguson brothers. I also had Penelope put together my thoughts on your putting, including a few videos of your last three tournaments with a voiceover from me.”

“Okay, um, thanks.” I’m sure his assistant enjoyed every minute of that task. Who doesn’t join a finance firm to splice together golf videos for their boss?

“Oh, you’ll also be getting a few notifications about a couple of transfers I made in your accounts last week.”

“I’ll look them over and sign whatever you need to move the money.”

“No need. I had Penelope go ahead and start making the changes, since I’m on your accounts.”

“Oh, well, that’s…convenient.” A classic Ronald Johnson move. Make it sound like he’s doing you a favor when he’s just forcing you to do whatever he wants.

“You’re welcome, Son. Well, I’ve kept my next meeting waiting long enough. Make sure you don’t take your foot off the pedal. You only get one shot at this thing, and you don’t want to miss it because you weren’t willing to push through a little pain.”

And with that lovely goodbye, he hangs up.

I pick up the extra golf balls I’d been practicing with and swing my bag over my shoulders. The worst part about this course is that they don’t allow golf carts. I like walking, but I don’t like walkingall dayif I’m not in a tournament—and then I have my caddie along to carry my bag.

Knowing I’m going to hate the conversation I’m about to have with my assistant, Sam, I call him anyway.

“Hey, JT. I just got the best email from your lovely father. How is it that the money you invest through him always returns far less than the money you invest yourself or in the S&P? You really need to start asking more questions, JT. You know your stuff when it comes to investing, and your parents are actively losing your money. Oh, and speaking of losing money, your mom called to let me know you’re paying for their home renovation.”

“Sam,” I say, trying my hardest to stop his rant.

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