Page 3 of Fore Better or Worse
He laughs, loud and genuine and completely unashamed, and suddenly, I’m fighting a smile, too. When he reins in his mirth, there’s something almost conspiratorial in his expression as he leans close.
“A go-to pickup line? Darling, if I was using a pickup line, you’d know it. I’d tell you that your eyes are prettier than a perfect lie on a pristine fairway, which they are. Or that I’d give my left kidney to get you alone and show you my stroke technique, which I would.”
Is anyone else hearing this? I scan the room and spot some interested glances from a table eyeing Mr. Fuchsia Polo. But they’re too far away to overhear. And all men, so I think it’s fair to assume I’m the only one who thinks this hottie is ridiculous. Completely over the top. And yet, I can’t help but play along.
“With lines like that,” I say, my voice deadpan, “I’m shocked you’re still single.”
“Who says I’m single?”
I can’t help but glance down at his left hand.
He notices, raising it to wiggle his ring finger. “I’m completely and utterly available. Thanks for asking.”
“I didn’t.”
“True, but now, I’m curious as to why you assumed I was.”
“Call it intuition.” I’m finding my footing in this verbal sparring match and beginning to enjoy it. “Or maybe, it’s the way you’re dispensing golf innuendos to random strangers on boats.”
“Strangers? I wouldn’t go that far, especially with how well you fit in my arms.”
Somehow the reminder of the sensation of being pressed up against him sends a wave of heat through me.
“But since you seem to require proof…” He pulls out his wallet, flipping it open. “Scout’s honor.”
I squint at the license. Hays Granger from Arizona. And, sure enough, his birthday was yesterday. Born the same year I was.
But what’s more fascinating is the picture tucked into the opposite transparent sleeve. An old, worn photograph of what surely is a little boy version of this man, maybe seven or eight, standing on a golf course with a club half as tall as he is. Next to him, a man who must be his father, stands with his arm wrapped around the boy’s shoulders, both of them grinning at the camera with identical dimpled smiles.
The image is faded, and the edges frayed, but there’s something about the pure joy on that little boy’s face that catches me off guard. Guilt prickles like static across my skin for doubting his honesty. “So you do tell the truth. At least, occasionally. My apologies.”
“Don’t apologize for keeping me honest,” he murmurs, sliding his wallet back into his pocket. “It’s sexy as hell.” His gaze drops to my dress. “And I have to say, mint green might just be my new favorite color.”
Chapter three
Leah
Sexy as hell?
I blink at him, dumbfounded. No one in the history of ever has described anything I’ve said, let alone done, using those words. Especially not my ex. And now he’s complimenting my dress like he actually means it, too.
The praise sends an odd little thrill through my chest, a sensation I definitely shouldn’t feel from a stranger’s compliment. I clear my throat, trying to ignore the way my pulse just kicked up a notch.
“Rum and Coke and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon,” the bartender interrupts, setting the drinks on the bar. “That will be twenty-eight dollars.”
“Add it to my tab,” Mr. Flirty-pants says immediately.
“Absolutely not.” I’m already pulling my card from my phone case. “I can buy my own drinks.”
He looks genuinely surprised, as if the concept of a woman paying her own way is a foreign concept. Which it probably is, considering his obvious confidence and those dimples that could charm the habit off a nun.
“Consider it a birthday present,” he protests, but I’m already tapping my card to the reader.
“Thank you, but I’ve got it. Really.” I add a tip and tuck my card away.
His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. However, he does study me with renewed interest. “Is yours the rum and Coke or the non-aggressively cheerful wine?”
I wince then raise the tumbler. “Eighty proof and a dose of caffeine are what’s going to get me through the next two and a half hours.”
