Page 15 of Guarding Her Heart
The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm golden light as I make my way to the putt-putt course Ethan suggested for our date tonight. It’s been so long since I’ve done something as carefree as this, and the thought of spending the evening with him, laughing and just having fun, fills me with a giddy excitement. The tension of the last few days—the threatening text message, the unsettling fear—fades a little with each step.
When I arrive, Ethan is already waiting for me, leaning against his truck with that easy smile that never fails to make my heart skip a beat. He looks effortlessly handsome in a casual T-shirt and jeans, his eyes lighting up as he spots me.
“Hey, beautiful,” he greets me, his voice warm as he steps forward, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Ready to show me your mini-golf skills?”
I laugh, the sound light and carefree. “You might regret challenging me. I take mini golf very seriously.”
“Oh, I like a challenge,” he replies, his grin widening. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Tiger Woods.”
We grab our putters and colorful golf balls, and Ethan insists on picking the neon pink one for me, which I accept with mock indignation. The course is a mix of kitschy decorations—windmills, loop-de-loops, and a giant pirate ship that serves as the centerpiece. It’s the kind of place that’s meant for pure, unadulterated fun, and I can already feel my spirits lifting.
“So, what’s the wager?” Ethan asks as we approach the first hole, his tone teasing.
“Hmmm,” I muse, pretending to think hard. “How about... loser buys ice cream?”
He grins, nodding. “Deal. But I’m warning you, I don’t plan on losing.”
“Neither do I,” I reply, stepping up to take my first shot.
The ball rolls smoothly along the green, navigating the twists and turns before landing neatly in the hole with a satisfying plunk. I turn to Ethan with a triumphant smile, and he chuckles, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
“Beginner’s luck,” he says, lining up his shot.
“What a shot! Did you see that, Gladys?” an older lady says as she and her three friends stand behind us waiting for their turn on the green.
“Of course I saw it. I’m standing right here, aren’t I?” her friend, Gladys, answers.
The taller of the four reaches us and squeezes Ethan’s bicep, “My, my. Those are some big guns you have there, young man.”
“Florence! You can’t go fondling strangers.” The lady that pulls Florence’s hand away from Ethan says, “You’ll have to excuse her. She’s demented.”
“I’m not demented! I appreciate good art. And that,” she points to Ethan, “isgoodart.”
It takes everything I have not to burst my gut laughing at the look on Ethan’s face as he blushes. He’s trying to be respectful and polite, but these four ladies are a riot.
“Okay, time to go. You don’t mind if we play through, do you?” the heavier one says but doesn’t wait for an answer. She puts her neon green ball down and swings her putter like she’s playing baseball.
“Next! I got a hole in one.” She marks it on her scorecard.
“Did not! You’re cheating.” Gladys yells as she does the same thing.
Ethan and I let them play through, although I’m pretty sure we didn’t have a choice, as we watch the four of them argue as they all take a turn and mark themselves down each as having a hole in one. I want to be them when I’m their age.
Once the older ladies play through, we make our way around the course, the competition heats up, both of us determined to outdo the other. Ethan is good—really good—but I manage to hold my own, surprising even myself. With each swing of the putter, with every laugh and playful jab, I feel the weight of the last few days lift a little more.
By the time we reach the final hole, the score is tied, and the tension between us is thick with anticipation. Ethan steps up to take his shot, his eyes focused and serious, but there’s a playful glint in them that makes my heart flutter.
“Last chance to back out,” he teases, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“Not a chance,” I reply, crossing my arms with a grin. “Show me what you’ve got, Navy boy.”
He chuckles, turning back to the course. His shot is nearly perfect, the ball rolling smoothly toward the cup, but at the last second, it veers slightly off course, stopping just shy of the hole.
“Close, but no cigar,” I say, stepping up for my turn.
Ethan watches me, his gaze intent, and I can feel the weight of his eyes on me as I line up my shot. My hands tremble slightly—not from nerves, but from the thrill of being so close to him, of knowing that this moment, this connection, is real. I take a deep breath and swing, sending the ball rolling down the green.
It bounces once, twice, and then, with a soft clink, it drops into the hole.
