Page 172 of The Fall
When we finally break apart, the sky has gone dark purple above us. Blair’s eyes are soft, but there’s a question inside of them. “I wanted to cook for you, but I’m so fucking wrecked right now, I’d cut my thumb off if I tried.”
“So let’s order a pizza.”
“I wanted this to be special for you. I wanted tonight to be amazing.”
“It already is.” I kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the spot where his neck meets his ear. “You’re here. That’s all I need. Besides, pizza on your couch sounds perfect.”
Everything about this night is perfect exactly the way it is. He may have wanted to woo me, but all he had to do was open the door.
His chin tips up. “Yeah?”
I brush the hair off his forehead. “Yeah.”
My golf ball curves right, misses the tiny castle door by a good foot, and slams into the moat wall with a hollowthunk.
“Jesus, Kicks.” Hayes snorts.
“Uncle Torey doesn’t know how to play,” Lily announces. She stands beside Hayes, her miniature putter gripped in both hands like a sword.
I’m standing at the twelfth hole of Gator Golf Emporium, a castle-shaped obstacle between me and the cup, and I squint against the afternoon sun. “Uncle Torey definitely does not.”
Blair tries and fails to smother his smile. He’s standing off to the side with his pink putter balanced across his shoulders. He’s in too-tight shorts and a linen button-down, and he looks sinful.
“Maybe Calle can help you out, Kicks.” Hayes scoops Lily up and settles her on his hip.
We’re a week into dating, and Hayes pretending not to know is the least convincing thing I’ve ever seen. When he pulled up to the mini-golf course an hour ago, the first thing out of his mouth was, “Mmm, couples golf. Lily-pad, you’ll be my sweetie, yeah?”
Blair’s already coming toward me, unhooking his putter from his shoulders. “Your stance is wrong,” he says. “And you’re gripping too tight.”
He slides behind me, so close the heat of him radiates through my polo. His breath tickles my ear. “Arms straight.”
His hands rest on my forearms, guiding them into position. I haven’t touched him since we got here, but now he’s flush against me from back-to-knees, his body curved around mine like a comma. He guides through a smooth practice swing. “Like this,” he says, voice dropping lower.
“Keep your eyes on where you want the ball to go.” His knee nudges mine wider. His breath grazes my ear. “Not on the obstacles.”
I swallow. “Got it.”
“You’re twisting your wrist too much. Let your grip pull through, not across.”
“You’re saying words,” I breathe. “None of which are gonna help me here.”
“Don’t think.” His lips brush my ear. “Feelit.”
I close my eyes and nearly drop my putter.
“You paying attention?”
“To the wrong things,” I choke out.
“You two need a private lesson?” Hayes calls.
Blair steps back. “Try it now.”
I line up my shot again, trying to remember the way his hands positioned mine. That’s hopeless; the only thing I remember is the burn of his lips. But, I swing, and the ball rolls clean through the castle gate, navigates the inner maze, and stops inches from the hole.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“He’s teachable after all.” Hayes’s voice is Sahara-dry.
