Page 88 of Calling the Shots

MACK

Never have I ever endured a more painful dinner at the club than the one tonight.

Things started badly and spiraled down from there. The second I set foot inside the stuffy clubhouse—all oak, scotch, and old money—people rushed up to greet me.

Not the current me, carpenter and high school football coach me.

Nope.

The old me. College football star and eldest son of the McIntires.

Worse, Tinsley standing with the family sent all the wrong signals. Guess the town’s collective memory is long.

“Mack, so good to see you, my boy!” Dr. Franklin, my former pediatrician, hops up from the brown leather couch in the main lobby and slaps me on the back. “Tinsley.” He tips his graying head at Tinsley, and she beams at him like she’s Miss damn Augusta or something.

“Hello, Dr. Franklin. You’re looking mighty fine this evening.” She bats her lashes at him, and Gracelyn stiffens beside me.

“Why, thank you.”

I swear Dr. Franklin blushes at the compliment. Before I get a chance to introduce Gracelyn, he spins to my father and launches into a long diatribe about malpractice insurance.

“We should check in.” My mother glances at her watch, tapping the sparkly crystal-encrusted timepiece. “I hate being late for our reservation.”

“I’ll do it,” I happily volunteer. Anything to stay under the radar.

With one hand hovering at Gracelyn’s low back, we move away from the family.

“Wow. This place is historic, huh?” Gracelyn peers up at the light oak-planked, vaulted ceiling as we walk toward the dining room.

“Yes. One of the oldest country clubs in the South. Lots of out-of-date traditions abound.”

“I sense you’re a big fan.”

“Huge. Love the men-only dining room and the mandatory dinner jacket rule.”

“Seriously? That’s a thing?”

I nod. “Yep. Welcome to 1950.”

The college-aged blonde at the hostess stand smiles widely at me, teeth sparkling white under the light from the chandelier.

“McIntire.” I give the name and she bobs her head.

“Of course, Mr. McIntire. I recognized you when you walked up. We have your table ready whenever you are.”

Good grief.

The hostess gathers the menus, ducking behind the stand to grab silverware. Gracelyn leans in, her floral cologne winding around me as she whispers in my ear.

“How does she know who you are?”

“There’s photos somewhere around here.”

“Here?” Gracelyn scrunches her nose. “In the clubhouse?”

I shrug. “Won the father-son golf tournament two years in a row back in college.”

“Oh my gosh. You’re a local celeb.” Gracelyn grins, fanning herself. “I didn’t know I was dating a celebrity.”

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