Page 59 of The Wrong Boss

A delighted grin flashed across my father’s face. “Your funeral,” he said, nudging me with his elbow. In a low voice he added, “Where’d you find this one?”

I shot him a sideways look and said nothing.

Ted, my father, and I went silent as Carrie leaned down to pierce the grass with her tee. She balanced a ball on top of it, then gripped her driver with practiced ease. The first inkling that I might have underestimated my newest assistant began to trickle through my mind.

She screwed her foot into the grass as she took her stance, checking her line once more before tucking her chin as she looked at the ball. A breath of wind washed over us, kissing the edge of her skirt and throwing her dark hair over her shoulder. The sun gleamed over her skin, as if to highlight all the curves and hollows I’d never again have the right to touch.

And then Carrie swung. The club whistled through the air, and the noise of the contact with the ball was clean and dry.

Ted swore. I stared. My father said nothing.

Carrie stayed there, club across her back, body twisted, staring at the flight of her ball as it flew straight and true. Itbounced in the middle of the fairway and rolled a good ten yards past where my father’s ball had landed. Only then did Carrie straighten and turn to beam at us.

At me.

“I’d say mine is the best ball, wouldn’t you?” Her smile widened, wicked and teasing and irresistible. “Sir?”

“Get in the cart, Woods,” I grumbled as my father and Ted laughed.

“I like her,” my father called out as he got behind the wheel and took off.

Carrie slid her driver into her bag and sat down next to me in our own cart, all prim and proper and gloating.

“It’s one shot, Woods. Long round ahead.”

“I’m sorry, what was that? Is it one-nothing to me already? I can almost smell victory from here.”

“All that gloating is just going to make it that much sweeter when I win.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to get through the round,” she told me, eyes sharp as an angelic smile curled her lips.

Despite my best efforts to keep it in, a laugh bubbled up my chest. We made our way down the winding path toward our balls, and I tried to ignore the bright, fizzy feeling of being in Carrie’s presence.

I didn’t evenlikegolf. I only did it because my father enjoyed it and it happened to be the place where a lot of business deals were negotiated.

But I liked this. I liked the warmth of the sun on my skin and the scent of Carrie’s hair on the wind. I liked the sight ofher legs in that skirt, her teasing grin, and the way she made me want to bend her over my knee for being so damn arrogant about a single shot in a game she wasn’t even supposed to know how to play.

“You’re going down, Woods,” I grumbled as I stopped the cart so I could grab my ball before driving over to where hers had landed.

“We’ll see,” she teased, leaning back to rest her elbows on the top of the seat. The pose pushed her chest out, and I kept my gaze dutifully forward to stop myself from staring. “A real Broadway musical will be so much fun,” she said, lifting her face toward the sun.

I huffed a laugh and decided that I could enjoy one round of golf without it meaning anything more. Sure, we had a history. There had always been something undefinable between us, a loose thread that made me want to tug and tug and tug.

But this was just an afternoon in the sunshine. It was a friendly wager. It meant nothing more than that, even though a secret voice in my head whispered that I was lying to myself.

TWENTY-THREE

CARRIE

My heart hammeredfor a long time after that first swing. The truth was I wasn’tthatgood at golf. I was mostly inconsistent, with flashes of brilliance interspersed between long periods of mediocrity. But from spending time with Mr. Wentworth and his buddies, I knew that there were just a few key moments that really mattered. Make a shot under pressure, and they’d forever think of you as someone worthy of their time. Miss—and you’d never recover your reputation. You’d be known as the one who choked under pressure, who wasn’t deserving of respect.

It wasn’t logical. But I’d stopped trying to figure out old men and golf a long time ago. I just accepted the truths as I had witnessed them.

Standing in front of Cole and the two older men, I knew one thing: That first drive had mattered. I’d felt three setsof eyes on me, judging. It was a first impression on steroids. If I was going to survive in this retreat, I had to make it count.

Besides, I wanted to shut Cole up.

The look on his face had set every nerve ending in my body on fire. I’d hardly been able to contain my glee. Mr. Big Shot was simmering with barely contained outrage, and I wanted to cackle in his face.

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