Page 30 of Perfect Mess

Leonard huffed. “You some kind of stalker?” His glare got glare-ier.

“Stalker? Me? No.” I waved my hand in dismissal. “Of course not. I was just … following him. He was supposed to get me in.”

“He didn’t say nothing.” Leonard raised an eyebrow.

“That’s because he doesn’t know that I’m here.”

Leonard rubbed his chin. “So let me make sure I understand. You’re following him. But he doesn’t know it.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s the literal definition of stalking.” Leonard gave me a good, hard look. “What do you want with him anyway?”

It was a good question, a question I wasn’t sure I could even answer myself. Demand he apologize for humiliating me in high school? Ask him if he was sorry for scarring me for life? Rip off all my clothes and use his hard body to relieve decades of sexual frustration?

With my brain momentarily paralyzed, my mouth went rogue. “I want to show him my feet.”

As a security guard at a fancy-schmancy country club, Leonard had likely heard all kinds of excuses from people who wanted to sneak in. But, judging by the look on his face, that was the first time he had heard that particular excuse. “You want to show him your feet?”

“I spent almost two hundred dollars on this stupid pedicure to impress him, and now I just want him to see my feet.”

Leonard nodded, as if what I was saying made any kind of sense. “What exactly does a two hundred dollar foot look like?”

I slipped off my heel and stuck my foot out the window. “Velvet Cucumber.”

“Looks velvety. I can smell the cucumber from here. Nice.”

“Thanks.”

“What kind of chicken sandwich coupon?”

“Chicken King.” I dug it back out of my purse. “Good for one Crispy Original or Spicy Deluxe. I see you as a Crispy Original.”

Leonard held out his hand. I gave him the coupon. He gave me back my license. “Actually, I’m a Spicy Deluxe man. Can’t judge a book by its cover, Ms. Mary. Never assume.”

Once the gate opened, I saluted Leonard and drove through.

* * *

After searching the clubhouse,the wellness center, and messing up some guy’s birdie putt on the sixteenth green, I spotted Jack’s car parked near the driving range. Jack himself was blasting balls into the stratosphere from a driving bay.

After a quick stop at the pro shop, I reserved the Pro Package in the bay next to Jack’s, which included a bucket of drinks, a basket of balls, some rental clubs, and a nice pillowed bench for relaxing.

Before taking my position, I watched Jack for a bit from afar. His stroke was incredible. Smooth. Elegant. Firm stance. Firm … everything.

I took careful note of how Jack’s hips thrust forward and the muscles in his arms rippled every time his club arced downward and impacted the ball, sending it high to the sky in a long, lazy loop. Watching Jack was like watching a gazelle. If gazelles wore tight checkered pants that enhanced their crotch bulge.

I adjusted my new golf skirt so it would show off my legs and tipped my new golf visor to shield my eyes from the sun. I had stopped by the pro shop for a quick costume change. Satisfied I looked the part, I took my place on the mat.

My bay was to Jack’s left, which meant that I was behind him when he tee’d off. I watched him hit another ball, this time up close. Those checkered pants were really tight. When he turned to reach for another ball, I pretended I had yet to notice him, busying myself with selecting a club.

“Mary?” His voice angled toward me. “Is that you?”

I looked up, face full of surprise. “Jack?” The pitch of my voice was as high as my arced eyebrows. “What a coincidence!”Hee-hee, coincidence, my ass.

Jack strolled over to my bay, smile widening with every step. “How are you doing?” He looked me over from head to toe. Checking for damages I assumed.

“Me? I’m great. Never better.”

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