Page 54 of Wildly Inappropriate

“Outside of about twentyminutes of putting, I don’t know if I’ve ever golfed with a woman except you,” I say.

After a full day yesterday spent in bed and in each other’s arms, Lila suggested we come out and play golf to get out of the house for a bit. I wasn’t a huge fan of the suggestion, mostly because leaving the cocoon of our little house felt unsafe—like everything that had happened the last day and a half could be exposed as a dream in the harsh light of day. It also might be because I can’t stand it when I’m not touching Lila. I don’t think I went more than five minutes yesterday without touching at least some part of her body. Even as we lounged in the living room, talking about our pirate book, reading out loud some of our favorite lines, she was either in my lap or snuggled against my side. Unless we were testing out some of the spicier passages, that is.

This utter infatuation is a completely new feeling for me, and when I realized I may be entering into clinger status, I agreed to play eighteen with her. I also desperately need to spend time working on my game before my tournament back this weekend.

Lila is standing on the tee box of WBCC’s second hole. Her dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail that my fist is begging to have wrapped around it, and she has on a black golf skirt that hugs the muscular curves of her ass as she takes a practice swing. I watch with fascination as she brings her club back around, executing an all-but-perfect-looking swing.

Every fiber of my being wants me to find something wrong with her form so I can step up behind her and “show her the right way to do it,” but leave it to Lila Walker to have such a technically perfect swing that I can’t find something to correct.

Actually, now that I think of it, her swing doesn’t have to be bad for me to help her with it. She might call me out on my true motives, but I’m beginning to realize just how muchfunverbally sparring with her really is.

“That can’t possibly be true,” she says, turning around to face me as she stands with her weight on the driver in her right hand.

“Well, I assure you I’ve never been golfing with my mom.” I hold up a finger for some reason and choose to overlook the slightly pitying crease that pulls at the corner of her eyes. “I’ve also never taken a date golfing.” I hold up a second finger. “So yeah…it literally might’ve been since the last time you tagged along that I actually played golf with anyone of the female persuasion.”

“Ew. Don’t say ‘female persuasion.’”

I laugh and pull her into me, resting my chin on her head as I wrap my arms around her waist.

“And, what about in college, didn’t you have to golf with the girls’ team then?”

I scoff. “No. We were two fully separate teams.” She tilts her head up, butting my chin to let me know what she thought of my slightly scornful tone. “Not that they weren’t great, it’s just not how it worked.”

“And you, a professional golfer, have never once taken someone out on a date to the golf course?” she asks, suspicion lacing her tone. “Was your twenty minutes of putting at Putt-Putt? It feels like a natural way for you to go about picking up women.”

I lean down and kiss the top of her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Pipsqueak, but I don’t usually have to put that level of work into picking up women. And I’ve never wanted to spend much time with them outside of the bedroom.”

“You're such a pig,” she laughs, shoving me away.

I let her think she’s escaped before grabbing her arm and pulling her back into a tight hug. “I want to deny it, but I probably am. But in the nicest way. I’ve never led anyone on or gotten into a situation where the woman I was with thought we were going to turn into anything more than a fun night or two.”

“How Jameo got painted as the womanizer while you walk around with a reputation for being the golden boy of golf is beyond me.”

At the mention of her brother, I flinch slightly. I know I’m trying to give Jameson the benefit of the doubt, but I’m terrified how this is going to impact my friendship.

“Speaking of Jameo,” I say, and Lila buries her face in my chest, groaning.

“Do we have to speak of him?”

“I mean, I’d rather not, but also, yes. It feels like the responsible thing to do.”

“Okay. Well…since you brought it up…why don’t you share your thoughts first?” she suggests.

I twist my baseball cap backward, and Lila chuckles at my outward sign of nerves. She twirls one of the curls at the base of my neck around her fingers.

“You don’t look terrible with your hat like that,” she says, pressing up on her toes to skim her lips across mine.

Thank goodness we don’t have to worry about anyone needing to play this hole right now. Most of the club members prefer to start their rounds early—unlike me and Lila, who are just getting started.

“Was that a compliment?” I tease, tightening my arms around her to lock my mouth against hers. We make out for a few minutes, my body hardening under her featherlight touch as she explores my chest and arms. When my length presses against her hip, I pull back.

“Okay, probably inappropriate to fuck you on the tee box.”

“Wildly inappropriate, JT.” Lila smirks. “Everyone knows the back nine is the only proper place to fuck someone on a golf course.”

“Is that why the pace of play is always slower on the second half?” I tease.

“Well, that and the fact that regular people have had multiple beers, not enough water, and hours out in the sun by the time they get there.”

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