Page 33 of Fore Better or Worse
“Do you practice those lines in the mirror?”
The question makes me laugh. “Sweetheart, with you, I don’t need to practice anything. It all comes naturally.”
And it’s true. Every word, every touch, every moment with her feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like I’ve been waiting my whole life to find someone who brings out this side of me—not the media-trained golfer, but whoever the hell I am underneath all that.
My gaze drifts around her living room, taking in the cozy space, and lands on the vintage typewriter sitting on a small desk in the corner. The mint green Olympia I sent for her birthday, with a sheet of paper still rolled into it.
“You’re actually using it,” I say, nodding toward the typewriter.
She follows my gaze, and her cheeks flush. “Every day, though not usually anything as…inspired as what I sent you.”
Too bad.
She settles onto her couch, tucking her legs under her in a way that makes my T-shirt ride up dangerously high on her thighs. “So, what’s the plan for this week? Besides convincing me to marry you, I mean.”
I join her on the couch, resting a hand on her bare thigh. “Tomorrow night, I’ve got a sponsor event. Callaway’sschmoozing their biggest clients. I’ll spend three hours pretending to care about their latest driver technology.”
“Sounds thrilling. I have book club anyway.”
I arch a brow, and she rushes to add, “Nothing spicy. It’s a crime thriller this month.”
“Any good?”
“Not bad.”
I move my thumb back and forth across her skin, gearing up for what I’ll say next. “Wednesday is the Pro-Am and a cocktail party. I’m hoping you’ll be my date.”
She tenses beneath my hand. Her eyes go wide, and I practically see her mind racing through all the reasons this is a bad idea.
Sure enough, she says, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t know what to say to people.”
The insecurity in her voice hits me like a blade between the ribs. I knew it was asking a lot, requesting this brilliant, private woman to step into a world where she’ll be scrutinized and judged by people who don’t know the first thing about her.
But I also know she’s stronger than she gives herself credit for. “You’d say whatever brilliant thing comes to your mind, same as always.”
I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together. “Besides, I’d like you to meet some of my friends.”
“I don’t have anything to wear to a golf cocktail party.”
I pull out my wallet and extract my black AmEx, holding it out to her. But as I watch her stare at it as if it might bite, I realize this moment isn’t just about a dress.
This is about the gulf between our worlds. My credit card probably has a higher limit than she makes in a year, and we both know it. I remember how she insisted on paying for herown drinks that first night, how she rattled off our differences like evidence in a case against us.
“I can’t take that.”
“Why not?” I keep my voice gentle.
“Because…” She struggles for words, and I see the internal war playing out across her features. But she doesn’t finish the thought.
I lean forward, my voice softening. “You think I care about money? About what you can or can’t afford?” I pause, letting that sink in. “I fell for a birthday girl on a boat who paid for her own drinks and called me out on my bullshit. That woman doesn’t disappear just because she’s wearing designer clothes.”
Her breath catches, and I see the exact moment she decides to take the leap.
Her fingers close around the card, and I feel as if I’ve won something infinitely more important than any golf tournament.
